← The Neurodivergent Experience
The Neurodivergent Experience
Re-Run | Mindful Mondays With Ashley Dupuy: The Art of Allowing | Lessons from the Forest
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Start Your Week With Presence & Purpose
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ACAST helps creators launch, grow and monetize their podcasts everywhere. Acast.com Foreign. The Neurodivergent Experience Podcast presents Mindful Mondays. I'm your host, Ashley Bentley, and this is your weekly space to breathe, reflect, and begin your week with presence and purpose. All October, we've been exploring nature as teacher, nature as healer. From walking off the storm to letting go with grace, each episode has been an invitation to return to the wisdom that lives all around us. And today we turn to one of my favorite lessons from the late spiritual teacher Ram Dass, who said, when you go out into the woods and you look at trees, you just allow them. You see why they are the way they are. Some are bent, some are straight, some are evergreens, some not. And you don't get all emotional about it, you just allow it. But he said, the minute we're near humans, we lose all of that. We start judging, comparing, measuring. And today we explore what it means to turn people, including ourselves, into trees. To allow, to soften, to stop trying to fix what was never broken. As John Cabat Zen reminds us, give yourself permission to allow this moment to be exactly as it is, and allow yourself to be exactly as you are. And for the neurodivergent brain and body, this practice of allowing can be radical, even revolutionary. We live in a world that often pressures us to mask, to contort, to perform. So learning to allow, to stop efforting our way toward belonging, is a deep form of healing. And let's explore what happens when we finally stop trying to prune ourselves into someone else's idea of enough. When you walk through a forest, you never think that tree's branches are uneven or, or that tree should be taller, or that tree really needs to straighten itself out. You just see them, bent, curved, scarred, lush, sparse. All part of one magnificent ecosystem. And yet, when we look at people, and especially when we look at ourselves, we often forget this truth. We start to judge, to compare, to rank. We forget to allow. The practice of allowing begins with noticing where we resist what is. And for the neurodivergent mind, this resistance can take many shapes. Perfectionism, self criticism, rumination, or the constant pull to do better. Our brains, wired for deep sensitivity, can become master pattern seekers. And when the pattern detection turns inward, it can morph into self surveillance. Am I too much? Too loud, too quiet, too late, too early, too sensitive? But here's the thing. The more we self monitor, the louder the nervous system hums. The amygdala, that little almond shaped part of the brain that scans for danger, starts lighting up even when we're safe. Judgment, whether directed outward or inward, is a threat signal. It tells the body, something's wrong here. Allowing, on the other hand, is the antidote. It signals safety. It tells the nervous system, you can rest now. Nothing needs to change in this moment. And it doesn't mean complacency, it means compassion. It's meeting reality as it is, instead of exhausting ourselves fighting it. And there's a story I love, the tale of a young woman who once asked a monk, master, how can I let go of my anxiety? The monk smiled and said, from the moment you wake up, the world throws a thousand things at your mind. Worries, comparisons, what ifs, deadlines, opinions, fears. And your mind, loyal to its purpose, tries to protect you by imagining every possible outcome. But in doing so, it traps you in an endless cycle of worry. And then he paused and said, to let go of your anxiety, you must return to the present moment. Listen to the birds, the wind. Each time your mind runs towards fear, bring it back to now. Because anxiety lives in your mind, but peace lives in the present. And the young woman bowed and said softly, so peace was never something to find, it was something to Return to. And that line gives me chills every time, because returning is exactly what presence is. When we connect with nature, that's exactly what we're doing. We're returning. Returning to rhythm, to stillness, to simplicity. For most of human history, we spent nearly all of our time outdoors in direct relationship with the world around us. It's no wonder our nervous systems calm when we step outside. We're coming home. And so the work of mindfulness, especially for the sensitive or neurodivergent soul, isn't to fix ourselves. It's to remember ourselves, to return to the truth that we are already part of the natural world, already allowed, already enough. When we practice allowing, we reconnect to our innate regulation system, the one that existed long before emails and expectations and self optimization. In psychology, we know that judgment activates the threat network in the brain, while acceptance and compassion activate the prefrontal cortex and the vagus nerve, both helping to support regulation and connection. So every time you catch yourself in self criticism and choose curiosity instead, you're not just being passive, you're rewiring your brain. You're teaching your nervous system that safety doesn't depend on perfection, it depends on permission. And nature teaches us this lesson effortlessly. When I walk amongst the trees, I see community, not competition. Each tree is growing at its own pace, bending where the light is reaching when it's time. And somehow it just all works. Albert Camus once said, autumn is a second spring where every leaf is a flower. And isn't that beautiful? Even as nature lets go, it finds a way to bloom again, not through effort, but through surrender. And Dr. Martha Beck uses a metaphor I often share with clients. Approaching your anxiety or sensitivity like you would a wounded wild animal. You wouldn't shout at it or chase it or demand it to calm down. You'd approach it quietly, slowly, tenderly. You'd soften your gaze, and you'd let it come to you in its own time. That's what allowing looks like in practice. It's how we meet our nervous systems. It's how we meet each other, and it's how we meet life. So when you find yourself tightening against what is a feeling, a thought, a person, a sound, a change, See if you can soften your grip even slightly, and notice what it feels like to let the moment be what it is and to let yourself be what you are. Because the truth is, you're not here to be perfect. You're here to grow, to bend, to bloom, to rest like the trees. This week, I want to invite you to take A simple walk. Nothing fancy. No goal, no step count. Just you, the trees. And when you find one that catches your attention, I want you to pause for a moment and look at it closely. Its beauty, its majesty, its quiet endurance, and sense its strength. The way that it has weathered seasons and storms and still stands rooted in the same patch of earth. And then I want you to do something that might be a little uncomfortable. See if you can look for its flaws. Maybe there's a dead branch or a scar in the bark. Maybe it bends at an odd angle or carries knots and holes that seem out of place. And notice what happens inside as you begin to pick this tree apart. It feels strange, doesn't it? Almost unnatural. Something in you resists because some part of you knows that this isn't how we're meant to look at trees. We're meant to see them, not perfect them. And that's the moment I want you to pause. Because that feeling, that resistance to judgment, that's truth. That's your inner wisdom whispering, this is not how you were meant to see yourself, either. You see, when we pick ourselves apart, our bodies, our minds, our patterns, it feels familiar, but only because we've been doing it for so long. We've confused vigilance with care, criticism with accountability. But judgment doesn't make us grow straighter. It just makes us afraid to reach. So then I want you to find a tree that reminds you of you. Maybe it's resilient and scarred. Maybe it leans toward the light. Maybe it stands alone. Or maybe it's cradled in a grove. Whatever it is that calls to you, I want you to stand near it. And I want you to notice its roots and the shape of its branches and the way it stretches toward the sky in its own language of becoming. And let yourself fall in love with this tree, with everything that makes it itself. Revel in its beauty, its story, its persistence. And notice how it holds both grace and imperfection, both strength and surrender. And see how it doesn't need to change a thing to be magnificent. And as you stand there, I'd like you to realize that this tree is not separate from you. That you are nature looking at nature. You are life admiring life. And when you fall in love with this tree, you are, in truth, falling back in love with yourself. That is the quiet medicine of allowing. That is microdosing meaning. And as we move from the forest outside to the forest within, I invite you to begin your journey inward. Because the same wisdom that lives in those trees also lives within you. And let's Explore this together in our practice of the forest of allowing. And if you are currently driving or operating heavy machinery, please ensure to pause the recording when you can safely come back into stillness and just find a comfortable position. You could be lying down or seated and ensuring that your body is fully supported and nice and warm. And whenever you're ready, feel free to gently close your eyes and take a slow full breath in through your nose and side, out through your mouth. And just feel your body begin to settle, the gentle pull of gravity anchoring you into the here and now. And imagine you are standing once again in a forest. The same forest that has been with us throughout this October journey. But this time it feels different. The air is softer and the light golden filtering gently through the branches. And you begin to walk along a narrow path lined with trees of every kind. Some are tall and straight, and some are lean and twist. And some are scarred. Some are newly budding and some are already bare. And as you walk, you begin to notice the quiet truth that each tree is exactly what it is. Without apology, without self doubt. It isn't trying to be taller or greener or straighter. It simply is. And yet the forest is perfect. Not because each tree is, but because all of them are allowed to be. And let that truth sink into your body as you walk. Good. That's right. You pass a birch tree. Its bark is pale and peeling like paper. And then you see a gnarled oak tree with a hollow that holds rainwater. And then you notice a young sapling swaying beside an ancient pine. Each has its place, Each belongs. And now imagine stopping before one tree that feels like you. And notice its shape, its texture, its story. It might be strong and rooted, or maybe a little bent from years of weathering. However it stands, it is enough. Take a deep breath in. And as you exhale, whisper inwardly. I am allowed to be as I am. Feel the relief that comes with that truth. Your nervous system unwinding, your breath deepening, your body softening into trust. Good. That's right. As you continue walking, you hear something nearby, A faint rustle in the underbrush. And you pause. And out of the shadows steps a small creature, timid, trembling, the shape of your own worry or self doubt made visible. A wounded wild animal. And notice its eyes, alert but wary. Notice how it holds tension in its tiny frame. This is the part of you that has always tried to protect you. It isn't broken, it's just afraid. And kneel down softly. Offer your open hands. You don't need to say anything. Your Calm presence is enough. And you feel it inch closer, step by step, until it rests its head near your palms. And you feel its trembling ease, slightly matching the rhythm of your breath. And you whisper to it, gently and lovingly, saying, you are safe. You can rest now. And in that moment, you realize that allowing isn't something you do. It's something you become. A presence that no longer demands, no longer resists, no longer rushes to fix. Just being here with what is. And the creature melts into light and dissolves into the forest floor. And you stand once more, feeling lighter, as if something within you has exhaled. And ahead you come to a clearing. And at its center is a massive tree, ancient, radiant, golden in the afternoon sun. Its roots spread wide, its branches stretch toward the heavens. This is the tree of allowing. A mirror of your own capacity to meet life as it comes. And you step closer, and you place your palm against its trunk. And you feel its warmth, the slow heartbeat of earth itself pulsing through the wood. And you breathe with it, inhaling in, drawing in acceptance and exhaling out, releasing judgment. Inhaling in, drawing in compassion, and exhaling out, releasing control. And with each breath, you feel more grounded, more open, more like yourself. And a breeze stirs the canopy above. And a cascade of leaves come drifting down. Reds, golds, ambers, swirling around you like blessings. Each leaf carries a message. You are a part of this rhythm. You are allowed to rest. You belong to this moment. And let the leaves settle gently around you. And let the forest hold you. And now, as we come to the end of this forest journey, bring your attention to the soft rhythm of your breath. The inhale and the exhale, like the tide always arriving, always returning. And can you now imagine that with each inhale, you're breathing in a brilliant golden light through the crown of your head, receiving this luminous energy, feel it pull, pour in a living current of awareness flowing through you. And as you exhale, imagine this light cascading down the length of your body like a waterfall of warmth and radiance, Inhaling in, drawing light in through the crown of your head. And exhaling, letting that light expand through the whole constellation of your being. This light is intelligent, alive. It knows where to go, touching every cell, every molecule, every hidden corner of your body with its gentle brilliance. And with each breath, feel this luminous nectar spreading through your heart, your ribs, your spine, infusing every organ with ease, balance and warmth. Each inhale, wakeful, spacious awareness. And each exhale, deep, effortless rest, Filled with life, filled with light, filled with knowing you are breathing the same light that moves through the forest, through the sky, through every living thing, And take one last deep breath in and as you exhale, whisper inwardly. I return to myself and stay in this space for a few more breaths. The quiet hum of the forest, the stillness between heartbeats, the profound peace of being exactly as you are. Thank you so much for joining me on this week's Mindful Monday. If you'd like to explore more guided meditations, yoga, nidras, bedtime stories and courses, you can find me on Insight Timer, where we continue this journey of presence and purpose together. And next week we'll close out our Nature as Teacher series with episode eight, Winds, Tides and Transitions, Nature's Lessons on Resilience. We'll explore how the winds strengthen the trees and how the tides teach us impermanence, and how storms can clear the way for blue skies. It's a gentle reflection on how to move with life rather than against it, and how nature reminds us that resilience isn't about holding tight, it's about learning to flow. Until then, may you walk gently, notice deeply, and remember you are allowed to be exactly as you are.
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