Leaving Marks That Heal: A Personal Journey Through Nature, Art, and Renewal

There wasn’t too much time to smell the roses just yet, as we still had about three hours of paddling a fully-charged canoe before we got to our first camping spot - and then try to get set up before sundown. So we set off on the 33-square-mile lake, taking in the initial islands out of approximately one hundred. It wasn’t long though before we decided to make our first stop to explore one of them.

Something had caught our eye. From afar, we could see this carefully arranged pile of rocks, shaped like a tower.

"It was reminiscent of a lighthouse, beckoning you over to its small plot of rocky earth."

Émilie and I parked our heavy canoe on the only diminutive parcel of sand we saw and went to investigate the construction. One day, maybe only hours ago, maybe weeks, months or even years ago, one or many humans decided to pick up these stones and place them like this. These were pieces of our Earth, Precambrian metamorphic rocks, which are some of the oldest on the planet, spanning several ice ages. They were transformed by glaciers as well as periods of intense heat and pressure. I let the tips of my fingers caress their billion-year-old surface, feeling the roughness of it. Of course, there was no signature, no way for us to know the author of this spontaneous sculpture, and no way for them to know who may or may not see it.

But that seemingly innocuous pile of rocks had a timeless and universally human message: “I was here. I exist. I mean something in the world, if only for a moment.” Not unlike when we used to carve our initials with a compass or scissors into the desks at school. One day it will be washed away by the wind or water. One day, the school will buy new desks. “This too shall pass.” But in the meantime, you are seen.

A bit farther on the same island, we saw a large piece of driftwood that had been implanted into a water-eroded stump. Both had been carried by the tides, then manipulated by humans. The dried grass added on top made it resemble an oriental-style dragon, depicted with long whiskers. Instinctively, we began picking up small, pointy rocks and inserting them into the serendipitously parallel grooves on the underside of the stick. Now, the dragon had teeth.  



In that simple and playful act, I was struck by how universal the need to leave a mark is — a quiet gesture linking us to the countless generations that came before us, and to those who will come long after we’ve gone back to dust.

Ephemeral art has a distinctive meaning in nature. Building an inukshuk-like totem, decorating a staff made of carefully selected driftwood with foraged plants, shells and other natural objects - it allows us to connect and ground ourselves into the natural world that so gracefully houses us. It is humbling in a way;

I am no more important on this earth than the loons whose requiem punctuates the sunrise, than the fishes gliding through my fingers near the shore or the tamias scurrying in the taluses. We all share the same home, so let’s make it a beautiful and peaceful one.

The desire to create and leave a mark is nothing new. In fact, it is deeply and inherently human. Currently, the oldest known artifact representing human-made art was conceived by Homo Erectus, some 500,000 years ago. It consists of a simple freshwater mussel shell, engraved with a zig-zag pattern - potentially as an aesthetic endeavour. 


Among the Ojibwe and other Indigenous nations of North America, some craft what they call spirit sticks. They are often carved from willow or cedar and adorned with feathers, beads, and other objects. They hold a profound cultural and spiritual importance and are used in ceremonies, as a tool for respectful exchange, for honouring nature and storytelling, even to communicate with ancestors. They may have symbols painted or carved into them, marking significant events.

Evidently, Art is essential and ubiquitous to humans across all epochs and societies. It triggers a pleasure reward response in the brain’s limbic system, especially the amygdala, releasing dopamine. The limbic system holds a crucial role in the formation of memories, as well as emotional regulation - which is why high-emotion circumstances such as traumatic moments have a strong effect on your memory. Engaging in art can help decrease stress and anxiety and elicit powerful emotional responses, including a feeling of awe. It can influence the amygdala’s activity positively and help process difficult emotions, thus contributing to the process of healing trauma. Feelings of awe also stimulate the default-mode network which is responsible for introspection, creativity, and self-awareness.


Studies using fMRI have shown that urban environments over-activate the amygdala, leading to anxiety, stress, and potential mood disorders. Conversely, spending time in nature has the effect of reducing the fight-or-flight response, as well as the production of cortisol. A Stanford study reported reduced rumination and lowered activity in the subgenual prefrontal cortex, which is responsible for brooding and depression, after a 90-minute nature walk. Other similarities between artistic activity and connection with nature have been found, such as a surge of dopamine and serotonin release. While stress may shrink the hippocampus, nature and art actually stimulate neurogenesis - the creation of new neurons.