Metta practice, which to my detriment has never made sense to me on a cushion, sofa, floor or city street, makes perfect sense in summer woods.
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Surrounded by trees, hearing birdsong, buzzing insects and rustling leaves, walking across gravel, root and grass, bothered by gnats and mosquitoes, glowing under the cool midnight sun.
In those terms, the practice makes a lot of sense.
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I suppose it is a sort of failing to need the reassurances of nature to access love as a meditation object, but I find concrete and asphalt agitating and distracting.
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I promised the land
I am yours and I will return to you
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