Nature as Guru: Lessons in Seasonal Practice

Trees don't apologize for their seasonal cycles. They don't feel guilty when they turn inward in autumn, conserving energy instead of constantly producing. What if we practiced the same way—seasonally, cyclically, without apology?

I'm writing this in early winter, watching the bare branches outside my window sway in the wind. A few months ago, these same trees were lush with green. In a few months, they'll bud again. But right now, they're resting. And they're not calling it laziness.

This is biomimicry—the practice of learning from and mimicking nature's patterns. It's more than metaphor; it's recognition that we are nature, not separate from it. And nature has been practicing yoga for millions of years longer than we have.

The Intelligence of Trees

Trees know something we've forgotten: that growth and rest are not opposites but partners in a larger dance.

In autumn, deciduous trees withdraw chlorophyll from their leaves, reabsorbing precious nutrients before letting the leaves fall. This isn't loss—it's strategic resource management. The tree is protecting itself, preparing for a season when photosynthesis isn't viable. It's choosing temporary dormancy over unsustainable effort.

Forest ecologist Suzanne Simard's research on mycorrhizal networks reveals that trees are even more sophisticated than we thought. Underground, through vast fungal networks, trees share resources with each other. Mother trees nurture their seedlings. Diverse species communicate about threats. The forest isn't a collection of individuals competing for resources—it's a community in constant conversation.

This challenges the hustle-culture narrative we've absorbed: grow at all costs, produce constantly, competition over collaboration. Trees offer us a different model entirely.

Rooting to Rise

One of the first things I teach students in standing poses is the paradox of uprightness: to rise, you must first root.

Trees understand this implicitly. The taller the tree, the deeper and wider the root system required to support it. A redwood can grow 350 feet tall, but its roots spread 60-80 feet from the trunk, interweaving with the roots of neighboring redwoods to create stability.

In tadasana (mountain pose), we practice this same principle: pressing down through all four corners of the feet to rise up through the crown of the head. The grounding isn't separate from the lifting—it's the foundation that makes lifting possible.

This translates beyond the mat: What are you rooted in? What gives you the stability to grow? Is it community, practice, values, ancestral wisdom? Without roots, growth topples in the first strong wind.

The Patience of Seeds

I've been thinking a lot about seeds lately. Specifically, about how they know when to wait and when to emerge.

Some seeds can remain dormant for years, even decades, waiting for the precise conditions they need to germinate: the right temperature, moisture, light. This isn't passivity—it's discernment. The seed doesn't force itself to grow when conditions aren't right. It waits.

In yoga philosophy, we talk about tapas (disciplined effort) and vairagya (non-attachment). Seeds embody both. There's a fierce vitality held in that small shell—the entire blueprint for a plant's life contained and protected. But there's also surrender to timing, to forces beyond the seed's control.

How often do we push ourselves to bloom when we're still in seed form? How often do we judge ourselves for not being further along, when really, we're exactly where we need to be in the cycle?

"The seed doesn't question its dormancy. It knows the difference between waiting and wasting."

Seasonal Practice: A Framework

What would it look like to align our practice with natural rhythms instead of fighting against them?

Spring: Emergence and Expansion

Spring is the season of uddhāraṇa—lifting up, elevation, emergence. This is the time for:

• Building heat: More vigorous vinyasa flows, practices that generate internal fire
• Opening: Heart-opening backbends, hip openers that mirror the blossoming of flowers
• Beginning: Starting new practices, setting intentions, planting seeds (literally and metaphorically)
• Energy cultivation: Breathwork focused on expansion, energizing pranayama

Summer: Peak and Sustaining

The growing season is in full effect. This is when energy is most abundant, but also when we must learn sustainable intensity:

• Strength building: Longer holds, challenging peak poses, building capacity
• Morning practice: Taking advantage of cooler temperatures and full energy
• Outdoor practice: Connecting with the earth directly, feeling the sun on skin
• Balance: Matching effort with adequate rest; even summer has cooler evenings

Autumn: Harvesting and Releasing

Fall asks us to take stock and let go. Trees model this for us daily:

• Reflection: What has this year's practice revealed? What has grown?
• Release: Forward folds, twists—poses that facilitate letting go of what no longer serves
• Gratitude: Acknowledging the harvest before the lean season
• Preparation: Building the inner resources for winter's introspection

Winter: Rest and Integration

This is the hardest season for many of us to honor. We live in a culture that sees rest as weakness, that demands constant productivity. But winter teaches us that dormancy is essential:

• Restorative practices: Yin yoga, yoga nidra, longer savasanas
• Inward focus: Meditation, breathwork, contemplative practices
• Shorter, gentler: It's okay if your practice looks different in December than July
• Integration: This is when the body processes and embeds what it learned in more active seasons

Cycles Within Cycles

Of course, seasons don't only exist on the calendar. We move through personal seasons as well.

There are seasons of grief, where even getting on the mat feels monumental. Seasons of excitement, where new energy flows through us. Seasons of plateau, where nothing seems to change. Seasons of integration, where suddenly something that was impossible becomes accessible.

For menstruating people, there's a monthly cycle that mirrors the earth's seasons: the follicular phase (spring-like), ovulation (summer), luteal phase (autumn), menstruation (winter). Honoring this cycle in practice isn't weakness—it's wisdom.

Even in a single day, we cycle. Morning energy differs from evening energy. Our bodies have ultradian rhythms—90-120 minute cycles of activity and rest that repeat throughout the day. We're not meant to maintain the same intensity constantly.

The Spiral, Not the Line

Western culture loves the narrative of linear progress: start here, end there, always forward, always up. But nature moves in spirals and cycles. Spring returns, but it's never the exact same spring. The tree that leafed out last April is one year older, one ring wider, when it leafs out this April.

Your practice is the same. You might return to the same poses, the same challenges, the same lessons—but you're not the same person meeting them. This isn't failure to progress; it's the spiral of deepening understanding.

I've been practicing for twenty-two years. I still work with warrior II. I still explore the fundamental actions of tadasana. But my relationship to these poses has spiraled deeper. The pose isn't "done"—it's an ongoing conversation.

Practicing Like You Live Here

Because you do. We all do. We're not separate from nature, observing it from a distance. We're part of the web—breathing the same air the trees exhale, drinking water that cycled through clouds and rivers, eating food that drew nutrients from soil built by billions of microorganisms.

When we practice yoga as if we're part of nature (not above it, not outside it), something shifts. We stop asking our bodies to be machines that perform consistently regardless of conditions. We start asking: What season am I in? What do I actually need today? What would a tree do?

Sometimes the answer is: grow vigorously toward the light.

Sometimes the answer is: send resources deep into your roots.

Sometimes the answer is: rest completely and trust that spring will come.

An Invitation

This week, I invite you to practice one thing: noticing what season you're in—both externally and internally. No need to change anything. Just notice.

Are you in spring energy, wanting to expand and begin? Or winter energy, needing to conserve and integrate? Is your practice aligned with this, or are you trying to force summer in the middle of your personal winter?

Nature doesn't apologize for its rhythms. What would it feel like if you didn't either?

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This article emerged from my own practice of working with seasonal rhythms—both on the mat and in the wilderness. I spend as much time camping as I do in museums, and both teach me about being human. If these themes resonate, join me for classes where we explore how philosophy meets the body through the wisdom of the natural world.