I live in the heart of a city, and although our neighborhood is usually pretty calm, there’s still that frenetic energy to my surroundings that exists in all urban areas. I sometimes don’t fully clock how busy and bright and beep-y my daily life is until I go somewhere truly far away—a hike on the wild North Shore of Lake Superior, or a cabin where the night sky is genuinely dark and the loudest thing is the birdsong.
But even here in my city, I am lucky enough to have easy access to green spaces galore. Three lakes are within walking distance, along with public gardens, miles of walking and biking trails, even a bird sanctuary. It’s an embarrassment of riches that I am daily grateful for.
Every time I step outside—into a nearby park, my own backyard garden, or even a small green strip between buildings—something shifts. My shoulders drop, and my breath deepens. That thing that was churning in my mind a moment ago seems a little less urgent. It’s not gone, but it is quieter. This shift is rarely dramatic, but more just a gentle signal that it’s okay to slow down and let down my defenses.
Nothing about my external circumstances has changed. Things in my life and in the world are still messy and anxiety-producing. I’ve still got little piles of grief, resentments, obligations, and worries in the dusty corners of my mind and heart. Being human still continues.
Still, I know that the experience I’m having when I get outside isn’t just a nice feeling. Something subtle but real is happening in my brain and my body. And while the mind/body/heart delineation is always somewhat contrived—after all, we’re always whole beings having all these varied physical and emotional experiences—a growing body of research is saying: what’s happening in these natural spaces is worth paying attention to.
What Happens in Your Body
When we talk about nature being soothing, we’re not just speaking poetically. When we take time to walk through or sit in the natural world, it is actually dialing down our stress hormones in real time.
In a 2019 study published in Frontiers in Psychology, researchers tracked urban dwellers over eight weeks and found that a nature experience produced a 21.3% per hour drop in cortisol levels, with the most concentrated benefits occurring between 20 and 30 minutes outside. A 2025 meta-analysis across 78 studies confirmed the pattern: exposure to green spaces decreased salivary cortisol by 21% and salivary amylase by 28%, which is a fancy way of saying that even our spit provides evidence of significant reductions in the body’s stress response.
Stepping outside for half an hour might be one of the most underrated meditation preparations we have.
Salivary amylase is a marker of sympathetic nervous system activation—the same fight-or-flight wiring that gets overworked when we’re anxious, overwhelmed, doom-scrolling (I know it’s not just me, right?), or simply living in the modern world.
When it drops, the body is shifting toward a sense of safety and rest. It’s settling into the very state that meditation practitioners often spend years learning to access.
What if stepping outside for half an hour is one of the most underrated meditation preparations we have?
What Happens in Your Heart
There’s something else that nature does, a little harder to quantify but no less real: it stops us in our tracks. It makes us feel small—but in the most expansive way.
Researchers (and poets and mystics) call this “awe,” and natural environments are among its most reliable triggers. In one fascinating study, students who spent just one minute looking up at a stand of tall eucalyptus trees showed measurable increases in awe and significantly more generous, helpful behavior than those who had looked at a building. Imagine the implications if sixty seconds of looking at trees makes us kinder and more gracious towards others.
Awe is a way to feel small that is deeply enlivening, because part of awe is also a feeling of being held and connected by something larger, more beautiful, and communal.
We generally don’t like to feel small, and a lot of our current state of nonstop agitation comes from armoring ourselves against the fear and defensiveness that arises in us when we feel pressed down by larger, more aggressive forces that seem to want us to feel insignificant.
Awe is a way to feel small that is also deeply enlivening, because part of awe is also a feeling of being held and connected to something larger, more beautiful, and communal. The group of astronauts on the recent Artemis II mission talked about this often and openly, and their shared sense of wonder magnetically drew in millions of followers. They offered living proof that there’s something bigger than this moment of strife. That sense of connection they described—the truth of our interdependence, which I think deep down we are all starved to feel and believe in again—is quieter and much more real than the blaring comment sections of social media that are constantly shouting at us about how separate and hopelessly broken we all are.
The sterility and atomization of modern life tends to rob us of these essential human experiences of awe and wonder, and the natural world tends to replenish them.
The Paradox of Awe, Surrender, and Beginner’s Mind
What research is finding is something contemplatives have long pointed to: a loosening of the ego, a softening of that grasping sense that we have to be the center of everything in order to feel alright. In meditation, this letting go of our need to feel special and smart is a quality we sometimes call “beginner’s mind.” It’s a place where it is okay to admit that we don’t know a whole bunch of things, maybe most things, and it’s also okay that we don’t know.
Yes, life is serious sometimes, but often not in the ways we imagine. Meditation is, in part, a way of gently reminding ourselves that we don’t have to take ourselves so dang seriously all the time.
As the poet Mary Oliver wrote while watching a gathering of goldfinches:
...it is a serious thing
just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in the broken world.
I beg of you,
do not walk by
without pausing
to attend to this…
The great irony, of course, is that in that moment of surrender, we actually open ourselves up to a fresh set of possibilities that our certainty and desperate need to feel big tend to foreclose us to. The “I don’t know” becomes the doorway to wisdom, and the “I don’t have to be special by the world’s standards” becomes a way to access a sense of real, unconditional belonging and belovedness, even in our imperfection.
Meditation can help unlock these states of expansive, cradled surrender. It turns out a canopy of trees, a wide-open field, or the particular shimmering quality of late-afternoon light through leaves can take us there, too.
Meditation can help unlock these states of expansive, cradled surrender. It turns out a canopy of trees, a wide-open field, or the particular shimmering quality of late-afternoon light through leaves can take us there, too.
What Happens in Your Mind
If you’ve ever tried to meditate after a long day at the computer and found your mind spinning, there’s a reason for that—and spending some time in green spaces can help with this, too.
Attention Restoration Theory proposes that mental fatigue and concentration can be improved by time spent in, or even just looking at, green spaces. It suggests that natural environments encourage more effortless brain function, allowing directed attention to rest and replenish itself. Our focused, striving attention—the kind we use to meet deadlines, manage inboxes, and navigate hard conversations—is a finite resource. It gets depleted. And ordinary urban environments, with their constant demands and stimulation, keep drawing from that well.
Natural environments evoke what researchers call “soft fascination.” Isn’t that a gorgeous phrase? This is an effortless, gentle form of attention, similar to mind-wandering but still directed outward. It allows our directed attention to rest while the mind quietly restores itself. Think of how your whole being feels when you’re watching a drifting cloud or noticing the way wind undulates a field of wild grasses, or what happens when you just sit and listen to the sound of rain drop-drop-dropping into a lake. These things don’t demand anything of us. They simply invite us to be present—which is, of course, the whole point.
A Gentle Green-Space Invitation
The research is compelling, but I know that you don’t need a study to tell you what you’ve likely already felt. Nature returns us to something. It slows us down, opens us up, and reminds us that we are part of something much larger than the constantly-shuffling contents of our minds.
Whether it’s a 20-minute walk before your morning sit, a lunch break in the park, or simply pausing to notice a patch of sky—time outside is time well spent. It offers a balm for your nervous system, nurtures your sense of wonder, and encourages the quiet, open awareness that sits at the heart of our practice.
