The Practice of Returning

In April, I attended a gathering centered on justice-impacted individuals and reentry, hosted by Reaching Out from Within.

During the breaks, I found myself wandering.

Not toward conversation, but across the street—drawn quietly to a garden.

There were tulips everywhere.

It was one of those crisp spring days where the sun warms your skin just enough, while a cool breeze reminds you to keep your sweater close.

Each step slowed me.

Each breath deepened.

And then, almost without invitation, a song began to play in my mind— “Loved By You” by Mali Music featuring Jazmine Sullivan.

A love song.

The kind that reminds you what it feels like to be held…

after you’ve carried more than you should have had to.

Rich and melodic. Full.

The kind of song that doesn’t just play—

you feel it.

And in that moment, it all felt connected.

The music.

The breeze.

The tulips swaying gently in rhythm.

My body softened.

My spirit exhaled.

I found myself smiling—

My body softened.

My spirit exhaled.

I found myself smiling—

in awe of the beauty surrounding me,

and the quiet peace unfolding within me.

Lately, time has felt unfamiliar.

As a child, a single day in nature could stretch endlessly—

filled with discovery, imagination, and presence.

I remember playing with my siblings, cousins, and neighborhood kids, searching for treasures left behind by spring rains.

Tadpoles in puddles.

Peeking into rabbit dens.

Riding in the back of a pickup truck, wind against our faces.

Life felt slower then.

And what we noticed… it fed us in a different way.

Our bodies just moved with the earth back then.

There was this quiet knowing; we belonged.

Now, wearing the title of “adult,”

I find myself fitting in moments like that garden—

between breakout sessions,

between responsibilities,

between expectations.

A walk becomes a transition.

A breath becomes something I have to remember to take.

And yet, standing among those tulips, I asked myself:

Why don’t I allow more space for this?

For the pause.

For the wandering.

For the return.

In many ways, what I experienced in that garden felt like a quiet form of what some call forest bathing—

not something to get done…

but something to receive.

A remembering.

That I can slow my steps.

That I can deepen my breath.

That I can return to myself—

not someday,

not when things settle,

but in the midst of it all.

And as I reflect back on that day—on a gathering centered around reentry—I realized something else.

Reentry is not only a system we navigate.

It is also a personal, spiritual experience.

A returning.

A shift.

A remembering of who we are—

beyond what we’ve carried,

beyond what we’ve survived,

beyond what the world has named us.

In that garden,

with that song gently moving through me,

I felt it—

what it feels like to be held…

in a love that isn’t asking anything from you.

Not earned.

Not proven.

Simply received.

Nature does not ask us to prove anything.

It does not rush our becoming.

It simply holds space—

for our unfolding,

our breath,

our return.

What would it look like to honor reentry in our own lives this way?

Not as something reserved for those transitioning from one system to another—but as a daily practice of coming back to ourselves.

Back to breath.

Back to body.

Back to belonging.

That day, I didn’t stay long.

But long enough to remember.

Long enough to return to me.

Where in your life are you being invited to return?

And what might shift if you allowed that return to be gentle…

unforced…and held by something greater than you?

Je T'aime Taylor is the co-chair of the Board of Directors at the Center for Spirituality in Nature. She lives in Kansas City, where she serves as the Director of Starting Early, a nonprofit committed to strengthening Missouri's early childhood education (ECE) workforce.