Nature is my church. The wind in the trees and the bugs and the

“Nature is my church. The wind in the trees and the bugs and the frogs. All those things are comfort to me.” Thus spoke Sissy Spacek, artist and seeker, whose words remind us that sacredness does not dwell only within walls built by human hands, but in the vast temple of the earth itself. Here is a vision both ancient and eternal: that the forest is a cathedral, the wind a hymn, the creatures of earth a choir, and that in the simplicity of these things lies a comfort deeper than gold or stone.

The meaning of this saying is rooted in the union between soul and earth. Spacek does not deny the beauty of man-made sanctuaries, but she proclaims that for her, the true sanctuary is nature itself. In the murmur of leaves, in the chirp of insects, in the chorus of frogs by the water’s edge, she finds solace. These humble voices of the wild form a liturgy older than any written prayer, a worship that requires no ritual but presence. In calling nature her church, she reveals that divinity is not far, but close—woven into every breath of wind and song of life.

This truth has been known through the ages. The Druids of old held their rituals beneath oaks, finding in the trees a living presence of the divine. The Lakota Sioux prayed to the Great Spirit beneath the endless sky, hearing sacred wisdom in the cry of the eagle and the rustle of the plains. Even Saint Francis of Assisi, clothed in humility, spoke to the birds and called the sun his brother, the moon his sister, and found in all creation a mirror of God. Spacek’s words carry this timeless current: that one may meet the holy not only in sanctuaries of stone, but in the living world itself.

The origin of such reverence lies in the human heart’s longing for connection. In a world of noise, where walls close us in and labor blinds us to beauty, nature remains the eternal healer. To sit beneath a tree is to remember that life is older than our troubles. To hear the frogs sing at dusk is to know that existence continues in rhythms larger than ourselves. In calling this her comfort, Spacek reminds us that we too may draw peace not from possessions, but from the embrace of the earth.

There is heroism in this simplicity. For to find one’s church in nature is to stand against the tide of forgetfulness, against the illusion that the world is merely resource, merely profit. It is to affirm that the smallest bug, the croak of a frog, the sigh of the wind, all hold value, all are sacred. Such reverence steels the spirit, teaching humility before the great web of life, and gratitude for the gifts that sustain us. The one who honors nature as church becomes its protector, for who would defile the sanctuary where they kneel?

The lesson for us is profound: learn to walk slowly through the world, to notice, to listen. Step outside not as a wanderer through wilderness, but as a guest entering holy ground. Let the trees be your pillars, the sky your ceiling, the song of birds your choir. Find your comfort not in noise and distraction, but in silence alive with creation’s voice. In doing so, you will discover that peace is never far, that the sacred surrounds you always, waiting only to be noticed.

Therefore, dear listener, remember Sissy Spacek’s wisdom. Let nature be your church, not only on distant mountaintops but in your own backyard, on city streets where weeds crack stone, where sparrows perch on wires, where frogs sing after rain. Learn to see holiness in the ordinary, and you will never be without comfort. For when the wind stirs the trees and life sings its eternal hymn, you will know that you too are part of this sacred choir, worshipping in the grandest cathedral of all—the living earth.