Disconnect from Nature’s Embrace

When people from the cities visit me, I notice it almost every time – a missing thread, a loosened connection with the outside world. It is as if they have wrapped themselves in layers of noise and distraction. They do not notice the trees, the birds, or the endless sky above. Nature’s quiet beauty seems to pass them by, waiting patiently to be noticed.

They sit in the garden, sometimes under a walnut tree or by the stone pathway, while their eyes are glued to their phones. The green all around them seems irrelevant, like a painted backdrop in a theatre set. It does not matter that the air smells of wet earth or that the breeze carries the scent of wild herbs. The pull of the screen is stronger. Is it the dopamine kick with endless scrolling or a false sense of safety by staying connected? It takes effort, real effort, to step away, to notice the flowers, to listen to the rustle of leaves.

A few of our guests hardly leave the indoors. I do not have a television. I do not stream films or shows, yet they are hypnotised by their phones. They scroll and tap as if expecting something urgent to appear. Even something as simple as stepping outside for a glass of lemonade or a warm mug of chocolate seems like a task. I watch them hesitate, check their screens once more, then finally leave their room, as though pulled out of a trance. Even while sitting under a tree, surrounded by nature, they keep pulling out their phones every now and then, glancing at them briefly before quickly slipping them back.

Another sign of this disconnect is how their ears respond. City life has made them familiar with noise, the low hum of machines, constant chatter, alerts and notifications. The silence of the night, once full of whispers and calls, now feels alien. Some confess that the stillness unnerves them. They have never heard the sweet calls of owls or nightjars. To them, the dark is only a space where lights are switched on. More than once, city visitors have ‘suggested’ that I install brighter lights in the garden, or set up floodlights to illuminate the whole place. Horrors! What would that do to the delicate balance of this ecosystem? And how would my sanity survive it? It’s hard to keep a straight face and entertain such suggestions.

Light pollution has dimmed their memory of true night skies. They have forgotten that the night can be sacred, untouched by artificial brightness. A star-lit sky stretching across the vastness or a landscape bathed in silver moonlight is a beauty they cannot imagine, not because it is not there, but because it has been covered by urban glare. They miss the poetry of darkness.

For most, a vibrant night-life means bright lights, late nights in the city, parties, and loud music. For me, it’s quite the opposite. True vibrancy comes from the quiet that settles over the village, the soft twinkle of distant house lights, the stars scattered across the sky, and the gentle glow of the moon. It’s the music of night birds calling out, crickets keeping rhythm, and the occasional flicker of fireflies dancing through the dark.

Those who come to stay with us often experience a culture shock, not from the lack of amenities, but from the abundance of quiet, from the absence of constant stimulation. The outdoors feels unfamiliar, even intimidating. They are not wrong; their world has been built without it. Yet, I feel a quiet sorrow for them. Nature is patient, generous and forgiving. It waits silently, without complaint, hoping someone will look up and breathe it in again.

Sometimes, at dusk, I sit alone by the garden path. The snow-peaks change colours with the setting sun. The sky deepens into blue, and the first star quietly appears. I picture the city visitor inside a room, their screen still glowing in the dark. I wonder if, deep down, they feel a quiet ache – an unnamed longing stirring somewhere within. Perhaps tomorrow they will step outside. Perhaps they will pause, if only for a moment, and listen to the wind moving softly through the trees.

Do I succeed in influencing them? More often than not, I do. It fills me with quiet joy and a sense of purpose when, during their brief stay, I can help rekindle their love for the outdoors: a gentle reminder of the beauty they’ve forgotten and the connection they are ready to embrace once more.

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