The Stories We Miss: Rediscovering Ourselves by Slowing Down in Nature

Tracking is so much more than following footprints through a landscape in search of an animal. For me, it has become a portal into the richness of story and subtlety that exists in every moment and in every layer I can touch, see, or sense at any level of my being. Yes, there are times when I fall into what I call the “label trap.” I spot an imprint under the footbridge on our land, and my mind immediately jumps to, “Aha! Five sausage fingers, five little toenails—raccoon has been here.” And then I move on, not thinking much more about it.

In the tracking world, this labeling approach can be met with critique, and I sometimes get down on myself for being superficial. But even when I don’t deepen my curiosity in the moment, something still comes alive. A relationship is being built between me, the muddy ground beneath the footbridge, and the animals that frequent it. I’m no longer surprised to see a raccoon track there, which means I now know my land—and at least one of its creatures—a little better.

But the real beauty in tracking, for me, is the infinite possibility that opens up when I attend to the subtleties within myself and the world around me. The layers, relationships, and mysteries that are uncovered lead me into an experience of life that is far richer and more satisfying.

Tracking has taught me, more than anything else, to slow down and to “look and look again” (as Mary Oliver encourages us to do in this poem). The other day, I was walking alongside the river and noticed an imprint in the mud. My first thought was, “Oh, that must be nothing. It doesn’t look like a foot at all.” I’m not sure where this impulse comes from—that “it must be nothing.” Because of course, everything is something.

When I slowed down and looked again, details began to emerge, like images in a Magic Eye poster. There, right in front of me—at first invisible—was a small scat, perfectly placed on a little rock like an offering at the altar. And next to it, in the mud, that curious impression. Looking again, I began to notice some ridges that resembled toes. Another look revealed a larger straight line extending from the shapeless imprint. My mind started reeling with possibilities. I had ideas about who might have visited our shore, but I wasn’t sure what they did or why. Questions and stories rolled through my mind, and I went home with a lovely little narrative cloaked in mystery.

Later, my tracking books confirmed my guess—a muskrat had visited our swimming hole that morning! I learned that muskrats like to sit on their haunches to eat, using their front paws to hold their food (often grasses, which grew abundantly in the direction this muskrat had likely sat for a snack or a harvest). I don’t know the whole story, but I have a vivid image of what unfolded, and it brings a smile every time I think of it. What if I hadn’t looked again?

This lesson applies to our inner tracking as well. I can be so quick to dismiss a feeling, idea, or interaction as “nothing” and move on. But when I’m gently reminded to look and look again, these inner experiences often reveal a potent narrative.

A few weeks ago, Dave and I had an uncomfortable interaction. I shared something (of no real significance) with him, and he seemed distracted, not fully hearing me. This triggered a familiar reaction—I felt ignored, unseen, unimportant. I made a sharp remark to let him know how I felt. He looked at me with kindness and took responsibility for his lack of attention, apologizing and offering loving words: “I love you. You’re wonderful. What you say really matters to me.”

But his words fell against a shield I was holding out, sliding off and hitting the floor. I responded flatly, with “Okay. Yup. Mmhmm.” He noticed I was triggered and gently asked, “Do you feel what you’re doing right now?” I kept my rigid face, but inside, I was startled. I did feel it. For the first time, I could clearly see this pattern—this rigid blocking, this shape I take on when I feel insecure or unappreciated.

By looking again in that moment—and over the following days and weeks—I’ve been able to come back into my body more fully. I’ve touched what it feels like to be present with loved ones, to feel like I’m really here, in the room where it happens. I now recognize the pattern when I retreat into myself and hold up my love-blocking shield—just as I now recognize the pattern of a muskrat sitting in the mud to chomp on some vegetation. While I can’t always stop myself from taking that shape, I can experience myself more fully, in my wholeness, even as I’m doing it. And this awareness has been profoundly healing for me and my closest relationships.

This practice of slowing down and looking again, whether in the woods or in our relationships, reveals the deeper layers of the stories unfolding within us and around us. It teaches us to notice what is often overlooked and to uncover the mysteries that live in the spaces we might dismiss too quickly. Each time I take a second look, I find there is always more to see, more to understand, and more ways to connect with the world and with myself.

In the end, tracking isn’t just about finding an animal or interpreting signs in nature—it’s about finding ourselves. Slowing down, looking again, and noticing the subtle layers of life draws us closer to the stories that make us whole. Through the tracks of animals, the quiet of the woods, the moments of stillness, and the unfolding of our inner landscapes, we rediscover not only the natural world but also the quiet truths of our own being.