Return to Roots: Reclaiming Ourselves from the Noise
Ever since I was a little kid, I loved nature. I remember laying in the grass during elementary school recess, folding blades of grass into tiny flutes and blowing music into the wind. I watched the clouds like they were messages, gods in disguise, daydreaming about them bowling strikes during summer thunderstorms. I ran barefoot whenever I could, choosing earth over rubber soles. I climbed the hidden caves of the greenbelt to watch the sun sink behind the trees. I knew that Barton Springs could wash away anything heavy inside me the moment I dove in.
But adulthood has a way of pulling us out of our body and into the noise. Somewhere along the way, I forgot how nature heals. How it doesn’t just soothe us~ it inspires us, reminds us that we’re part of something far older and wiser. We traded it in slowly, unknowingly. First with smartphones, then smart watches, Bluetooth headphones, biohacking dashboards, meditation apps, sleep tech. All promising to make us better, optimized, well. But underneath that optimization was a growing disconnect.
We forgot the power of real touch. We hold plastic instead of bark. We rest our heads on memory foam infused with circuitry and synthetic vibrations. Even our moments of stillness are filtered through a screen. And I can’t help but wonder: what’s the long term impact of replacing Earth’s frequencies with digital ones?
Meditation that once meant sitting beside a stream has become guided audio beamed from satellites. Rest that once meant lying under stars now requires tech supported beds and noise canceling machines. We’ve created a plastic and cement jungle and called it progress, but at what cost? I’ve found myself lately researching flip phones, the kind that aren’t smart but somehow seem more intelligent. A quieter kind of intelligence. One that doesn’t need push notifications to remind you to breathe.
Maybe it’s time we start walking backward. Not in regression, but in remembrance. Of local parks. Of flora and fauna we no longer know the names of. Of the way silence can stretch long enough to teach us something. How did we get so far from our roots? Maybe the better question is: how do we return?
Start simple. Take off your shoes. Step outside without your phone. Listen longer than you speak. Observe instead of optimize. The Earth has never stopped waiting. And beneath the noise, we’re all just thirsty. Thirsty for stillness, for meaning, for something real. For beauty not curated, but felt. For presence not monitored, but lived. For a frequency that doesn’t come from a speaker, but from the soil itself.
We don’t have to abandon technology. But we can stop worshipping it. We can choose balance. We can choose the wind again.
