The Quiet Art of Nature Stories: Discover the Magic of Nature-Inspired Storytelling

There is a hush in the forest that no city noise can drown. A kind of silence that sings. A stillness that breathes. This is where my stories begin. They do not march with fanfare or shout to be heard. They arrive on the wind — barefoot, unhurried — like a memory you almost forgot.

I write nature short stories because I want to live in that hush. I want to bring others into it too.

A Story is a Doorway

Sometimes, when the sun sinks low behind the hills and the chickens have settled into sleep, I sit by the window and write. I don’t plot or plan. I listen. To the sound of frog song in the dam. To the creak of old gum trees. To the ache in my own chest that says, you’ve strayed too far from stillness — come back now.

That’s what these stories are. Not escape. But return. A short story about nature can be a kind of homecoming — not just to the land, but to the slow, hidden parts of ourselves that the modern world forgets to feed.

The Forest Knows Things We’ve Forgotten

The earth does not rush. It doesn’t hustle or perform. The daisy does not ask, “Am I enough?” The tide does not try to be on time. This is the deep wisdom I try to bottle into words. A rustling branch. A misted morning. A child’s muddy feet. Each detail is a thread — and when woven together, they become a quiet kind of magic. These are bedtime stories for adults. But not the kind that lull you into sleep. The kind that wake you — softly — into presence.

The Beauty of Simple Living

I used to think simple living was a style. Mason jars. Wool blankets. A curated life. But now I know better. Simple living is the way light slants through the kitchen at 4 p.m. It’s the rhythm of kneading bread, of hanging laundry, of harvesting rosemary just before the rain. It is living with the earth, not on top of it. It’s seeing life not as a to-do list, but as a story unfolding. And when I write, I try to let that simplicity shine through — not in the structure or polish, but in the feeling. The hush. The heart.

Why Nature Short Stories Matter

We are drowning in information, but starved for meaning. And in that hunger, a short story about nature can be a balm.

It doesn't need chapters or twists or ten thousand words. Sometimes, all it needs is:

• a grandmother shelling peas on a quiet porch

• a child chasing dragonflies through golden grass

• a woman walking barefoot through the dew, remembering who she is

  
  

These are the stories I tell. And the ones I treasure.

Let the Land Speak Through You

If you feel called to write your own nature short stories — let the land speak through you.

Here is how I begin:

• Sit by the window, or under a tree, or near a stream.

• Breathe deeply.

• Watch the light shift.

• Feel the air change.

• Write down what you notice — not just with your eyes, but with your heart.

  
  

Let your words grow slow, like moss. Let your sentences drift, like dandelions. Let your story be soft.

One Small Story Can Change Everything

In the end, this is why I write: Because the world is noisy. But stories can be quiet. And in their quiet, they can heal.

A single nature short story can slow your heartbeat. It can remind you to look up. To go outside. To touch the bark. To taste the air. To remember that you belong here.

So if you’re feeling weary or restless or lost in the speed of things…Let a small, slow story be your lantern.

Listen to My Podcast — A Wild and Simple Life

Each week, I share short, cozy audio stories and reflections like this — gentle, poetic, and rooted in the rhythm of nature. They’re perfect as bedtime stories for adults, morning meditations, or quiet companions on a walk.

🎧 Listen now to A Wild and Simple Life Let’s wander together.

As always. Thank you for reading and for being here with me. It is always a pleasure, and I am truely grateful for your support.

Julie Ann xx