When I first stepped off the plane in New Zealand, I didn’t quite know what to expect. I only knew I needed to escape for a while – from the rush, the noise, the relentless march of time. Even in the first few days, I sensed that time flowed differently here. It was as if the trees were whispering to me to slow down, as if the wind carried words I didn’t yet understand, but somehow felt familiar.

One morning, while hiking around Lake Taupo, I met an elderly man – a Māori named Rangi. He was sitting beneath a massive pohutukawa tree, gazing at the still water. He smiled and gestured for me to join him. He didn’t say much, but his presence carried a strength I hadn’t felt in my life for a long time.
“Here, we listen to the land,” he said quietly. “You don’t walk on it like a tourist. If you open your heart, it will guide you.”

I stayed with Rangi for a few days. He taught me to recognize birdsong, to gather healing plants, to feel the stories hidden in the river, the stones, the mist. But above all, he taught me how to be quiet within myself again. And in that silence, I heard my own voice – the one I had lost in the noise of the world.
When I was leaving, Rangi handed me a small stone – smooth, green, engraved with the leaf of a tree known in Māori culture for its strength, healing, and protective qualities…
“This is pounamu,” he said. “Greenstone. Not for luck. But so you don’t forget.”
I still wear it today. Not for luck.
But so I don’t forget.