Nature and community feed my soul as an ALS caregiver

An outing to a nearby pond inspired solace and gratitude

Kristin Neva avatar

by Kristin Neva |

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It’s hard for me to get away from home because I’m the primary caregiver for my husband, Todd, who has ALS. But I try to take daily walks in the fields and woods around our house, because nature feeds my soul.

Last weekend, I managed to go to the Boston Pond Nature Area, a five-minute drive away, to attend a walk with a local group that meets monthly in various outdoor locations around Michigan’s Keweenaw Peninsula for prayer and reflection.

We began with an opening prayer in a pavilion surrounded by birch and maple. The air carried the scent of fall as leaves drifted down along with a light mist. We then walked a gravel path covered in leaves through the trees and onto a boardwalk that led to a floating dock, where one of the leaders read a passage with a rich description of poplar trees. She gave us questions for contemplation and instructed us to spread out for the next half hour.

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I felt a twinge of disappointment. I went to the event to be with other nature buffs because I feel isolated at home, and I spend plenty of time in nature on my solitary walks. But I am drawn to water, so I stayed on the floating dock.

I was pleased that another woman also stayed, and she sat cross-legged and looked out at the water. She commented on the pleasing sound of light rain falling on the pond.

I listened to rhythmic plinks. “It sounds musical,” I said.

I lay on my stomach with my elbows propping up my head near the edge of the dock, and I read the first question: “What grabs your attention?”

A landscape photo shows a pond on a cloudy day. There are leaves floating on the water and autumn foliage in the background.

The Boston Pond Nature Area on Michigan’s Keweenaw Peninsula. (Photo by Kristin Neva)

I looked up and studied the water. Overlapping concentric circles spread out from where each raindrop fell. A quarter-sized bubble formed where one of those drops landed, and water tension held it for about five seconds before the bubble burst.

The next question: “What draws you to spend more time?”

Definitely the water. I have woods behind my home, but sitting on a floating dock in the middle of water is outside my daily routine.

Another woman joined us on the dock, and the three of us discussed how we were drawn to water and how we like living near Lake Superior. “People are probably so drawn to water because it’s something we need to live,” one of the women suggested. We shared various places we’ve traveled or lived and all agreed those locations near water call to us.

I considered the final two questions: “What do you feel?” and “Did you show or express gratitude?”

I sighed. After 14 years with Todd’s progressive disability — one loss after another, almost total paralysis, near-death experiences, and complete dependence on me — I am tired of feeling feelings, and sometimes it’s hard to muster up gratitude.

Looking down over the edge of the dock, I studied the lily pads and noticed a white feather mixed in with a clump of vegetation, a water bug that shimmied across the surface and quickly disappeared, and tiny snails on several of the pads.

I felt a sense of kinship with those tiny creatures floating on their little rafts, and watching the snails reminded me of my honeymoon in Maine. I studied snails in a tide pool in Arcadia National Park, and Todd watched me watch the snails.

I was saddened by the thought that Todd can no longer join me on excursions into nature, but I was able to feel gratitude for that memory of us together. And I felt some solace in knowing that wherever I go, I often find little things that remind me of our happy times.

At the end of the contemplative period, we gathered for hot tea under the pavilion roof and took turns sharing our observations. With my soul fed by nature and community, I headed home to change into dry clothes and check on Todd.


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