One Life Many Forms

The Nature of Experience

The Movements of Life

Each day I walk into the forest from my home on the Noosa Trail, right at the forest edge.

It’s a clear winter’s day. Cool, but with the sun shining, and the land feels alive. The lemon tree, thriving in the winter cold, is overflowing with fruit—reminding me not only of the natural cycles, but of the inherent abundance and nourishment surrounding us.

I notice a beautiful butterfly, gentle and colourful, delicately resting on a large tree branch. Its wings are spread wide, drying in the sunlight. I smile and feel that same warmth inside my own body. Taking a few moments to witness the gentle creature, I recognise that the same life beating through its tender heart is beating through my own. Observing this pure intelligence, I feel like I could stay here for hours, but my dog, Sasha, hurries me along, eager to move deeper into the trail.

The surrounding trees seem to emanate a presence, a strength born from years of silence and stillness. I meet them daily, and some have become like family—a Grandfather sage, a nurturing mother, a wondrous child. Today, the birds are happily singing their sunshine songs as they fly, squabble, and explore through the lush lands and open sky.

As I continue along the path, carrying the joy of the butterfly’s restfulness, a sudden jolt of energy floods my nervous system. A surge of adrenaline rushes through my veins.

My body stops instantly. The first thought comes: Thank goodness I saw it before taking another step. The next is to check on Sasha—a relief washes over me as I see she has safely moved ahead, though the subtle tension remains in my body.

Directly in front of me lies a large Eastern Brown Snake. In that moment, my mind begins recalling everything I’ve ever heard about them. It’s winter—I’m surprised to see a snake out at this time of year. This is the second most venomous snake in the world. Countless dogs die from a single bite. Unlike many other snakes, an Eastern Brown can be aggressive and even chase its target if provoked.

The thoughts kept moving, yet a deep peace remained in my heart—a calm space that recognised a fellow creature simply seeking comfort in the unusual warmth of a winter’s day. The snake was coiled loosely, relaxed as if in a deep sleep, completely unbothered by Sasha or me. Interested only in the warm rays of the sun. I felt a natural connection—a shared reverence for another being enjoying this beautiful day.

As I noticed the chatter of my mind, I even recalled an old dream where I accidentally stood on a brown snake, startled it, and was bitten on the face. Driving this mental noise was a pure, instinctive response to the potential threat lying in front of me.

Perhaps the emphasis here is the word potential.

My mind and nervous system kept signalling caution, but my heart noted a shared experience of nature. I saw the raw power of this coiled creature, but also its complete innocence. Truly, we were just two beings crossing paths whilst exploring the shared land. I gave my respects and blessings to the snake, quietly passed its body without disturbing its rest, and continued into the forest—making a mental note to take that same care on the way back.

As the stories settled, I saw something true. The snake was no longer “my danger” or even “the snake.” There was simply this living encounter. The warmth of the winter sun, the stillness of the forest, the alertness of my body, and the resting snake all belonged to the same unfolding moment. The apparent boundary between observer and observed unveiled itself. It no longer felt as though I was standing apart from nature, looking in. I was part of the very life I was witnessing.

The same life, the same air, moved effortlessly through the butterfly, the trees, Sasha, the snake, and this human body alike.

When The Mind Intervenes

Many will see a creature like a butterfly and marvel at its precision, grace, and beauty. Its very nature seems to evoke a feeling of relaxation, warmth, and awe. Yet seeing a snake might cause someone to freeze in place or reach for a weapon, terrified of what this powerful creature might do. Some might even avoid walking this same path ever again.

The snake itself didn’t create psychological fear. Its presence first evoked an intelligent, protective response from the nervous system—life preserving life with total clarity and respect. The physical jolt, the sudden stillness, the instinct to check where Sasha was—that was instinctive intelligence moving through the body before a single word formed in my mind.

Consider how a deer senses an approaching predator. Adrenaline surges, its body moves rapidly through its environment until it reaches safety, and moments later, it continues calmly eating its grass. There is nothing left behind to limit, control, or embellish its experience—no story carried in from the past or projected into the future. The biological cycle completes itself, and it returns entirely to the present moment.

While my body simply stood still on the path, my mind began firing off a cascade of stories: everything I knew about venom, memories of old dreams, other people losing their loved ones to snake bites, and images of excruciating pain. The nervous system had already done its job, but the mind kept building upon the experience. If obeyed, it could have easily ruined the entire day.

This is why the butterfly and the snake feel so completely different to us. It isn’t simply the creatures themselves—both were resting peacefully, soaking in the rare warmth of a clear winter’s day. The butterfly naturally invites the nervous system to soften and open. The snake naturally awakens an intelligent state of alertness. But then the mind adds another layer, weaving stories of danger, beauty, memory, preference, and fear.

I recall visiting a crowded waterfall many years ago, where a large python was resting peacefully on a sun-warmed rock. A crowd had gathered around the rock, as a young man was making his way towards it, eager to pick it up. I stopped him and asked, “What are you doing?” “I’m going to pick up the snake,” he replied confidently. My face must have said it all. He quickly assured me he wasn’t afraid, but I told him I wasn’t concerned about him—I was concerned about the python. “How would you feel if, while resting peacefully, a giant human suddenly picked you up?” He paused, stepped back, and as the crowd dispersed, the python quietly slipped into the bushes, returning to its solitude.

These creatures possess their own nervous systems, their own sensory realities, and their own desire for safety, comfort, and peace.

Every living being experiences the world through its own unique way of perceiving and responding to life. True empathy begins when we recognise that another being's experience is just as real and meaningful to them as ours is to us. Yet this is difficult while we remain absorbed in our own thoughts, fears, preferences, and stories. As resistance to the moment falls away, we become capable of genuinely meeting another life, whether human or animal, on its own terms.

Perhaps this is where true relationship with nature begins—not by observing life from the outside, but by recognising that every living being experiences the world from the centre of its own existence.

When we mistake the mind’s interpretation for reality itself, awareness becomes entangled in reaction. We panic, reach for a stick, or begin living in fear of a future that hasn’t happened.

But when we step back into the space of the Witness, experience deepens. We allow the nervous system to do its wise, protective work without allowing the mind to turn the moment into a drama. The tension begins to relax, the story gradually falls away, and what remains is simply reality: two living beings, sharing the same forest, and feeling the same warming rays of the winter sunshine.

The Unshakeable Witness

The butterfly arrived and fluttered away. The snake appeared coiled in the sun, then disappeared from view. The nervous system surged with adrenaline, then gradually settled. Thoughts rushed in like a sudden wave, then slowly faded.

Everything within experience was in constant motion—arising, changing, and passing.

Yet through every change, something remained completely untouched.

That is the Witnessing Awareness.

It requires no complex philosophy to recognise. You need only notice what is always present. There is awareness that knows the gentle warmth of the butterfly, the surge of adrenaline in the veins, the movement of thought, and the deep peace resting in the heart.

Awareness doesn’t panic, contract, or become frightened. It is aware of fear. Awareness doesn’t become tense. It is aware of tension.

Recognising the Witness is the doorway. It reveals that while every sensation and experience changes, the one who knows the experience never does.

One Field of Awareness

Standing there in the forest, it became difficult to know where "I" ended and nature began. The butterfly, the snake, the trees, Sasha, and this human body were each expressing life in different forms, yet the life itself felt indivisible.

When seen for what it truly is, nature is an ever-new stream of consciousness—beginning with an idea lying dormant, a seed sprouting, creation moving into form, and eventually a dissolving that makes way for the next cycle. We are not separate observers looking in, but an inseparable part of this living harmony, moving within the same seamless, dynamic flow of intelligence.

There is only One Life, expressing itself in countless forms.

The Seer, the Seen, and the Seeing become One.

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Thank you for joining me here,

Jenni M

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