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Naked in the Bush

by Judith Brisson

I spent some time in Nature this week, a respite from the break-neck rhythm of the city that slows only in the wee hours. Something about being in Nature makes me want to rip of my clothes, and roll, like Margret Atwood’s heroine in Survival, in the clean filth of leaves and mud.

It’s an instinct I felt the first time I moved to the countryside as a young mother. Never having truly inhabited the forest before, I would sneak out of the house when things were quiet and disappear into my secret, sacred moss-covered spot where I would strip down to my bare essence and sit on a rock. It took a few weeks before I understood this compulsion: it was the expression my desire to fully connect with the natural world around me.

It was if the natural world had its own set of eyes free from comparisons, judgments and assessments of the sort that one feels when walking into a Gamercy Park party dressed in gardener’s clothes. One yearns to be engulfed and caressed by the gentle brushing of leaves, washed by the tender drizzle of rain and not ranked by brands, labels and looks.

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