Soaking in the forest (Week 22)
"And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul."
We have always been drawn to forests in the way described by Scottish-American John Muir, the "Father of the National Parks." And never more than now, with the Japanese phenomenon of shinrin-yoku spreading across the globe. This week, I spent many a contemplative moment searching for my soul during an activity that raises a lot of eyebrows when you tell people you're going "forest bathing."
Once I explained that the activity involves no nudity or even water, I saw some slow nods of understanding. This zen-like bathing is simplicity itself – you are merely soaking in the natural environment and communing with the elemental forces of nature.
I decided for a DIY approach to forest bathing, even though a quick scan of Vancouver Island therapist listings reveals that there are several qualified practitioners of shinrin-yoku who would be happy to share their insights with me for a pretty healthy fee. But no. Off I went into the woods on my own, in much the same way a Hobbit might stumble into Fangorn Forest.
Forest bathing is not hiking. It is not adventuring. It is not strenuous in the least. You can start by simply wandering in slowly, and just stopping in a spot that speaks to you. For me, a particularly magical spot turned out to be the forests around Deep Cove in Vancouver. It seemed to promise a good return on my meditative meandering.
When forest bathing, you want to explore as much of your senses as you can, one at a time, deliberately and mindfully. If I'd been with a qualified shinrin-yoku therapist, I might have been encouraged to taste something, but there were too many mysterious leaves, berries and mushrooms for me to dare that one. So I settled on the other senses, which have been shown to boost immunity and mood when you explore them in a forest setting.
Touch, it turns out, is a great way to slow your mind and make a physical connection with your forest environment. I reached out for the rutted evergreens and let my hand sink deep into their craggy bark. As my fingers slipped over their turquoise fringes, I felt my mind drifting off into scenes of misty memories and connecting them with the images flooding into my brain.
Sitting perfect still in a grove that I'd made sure was completely devoid of human sound, I waited for small noises to layer in. Birdsong is easy to pick out, but then you try to picture what kind of bird it might be and what message it could be sending. The more you let small sounds in, the more distant noises begin to creep in and assemble into a forest soundscape – babbling streams, brushing ferns swaying in a forest breeze, maybe even a twig snapping.
When you stare into the depths of a forest, you begin to see minute detail. A mighty tree that overwhelms the picture is now completed with smaller bushes, dark crevasses of rock and soil, and both new life and decaying death in equal measures. It is the cosmic story of birth and regeneration playing out in front of you, forcing you to into ever slower, slower and then slower rhythms until you are utterly at peace.
I think the smells of the forest are the most stirring. The purity of the air is restorative, the heady aroma of soil is foundational, and the mixture of different trees and plants brings the life and vibrancy of a forest into sharp focus. With each long and low breath, you're taking on the life of the forest itself, bringing it deeply into your lungs and reminding yourself that you are a part of this amazing interplay.
The best forest bathing, to me, is done solo even though it's quite common for whole groups to practice shinrin-yoku together. And, while some return to the same spot each time to reconnect with that forest magic, I found that different forests had different things to offer. At Neck Point Park near Nanaimo, it was the super-fresh aroma and low-lying greens of a deciduous forest that made me feel like I was truly bathing in nature. At Mystic Vale near Victoria's Mount Douglas Park, it was the towering Douglas Firs with their massive trunks that gave the setting a permanence and timelessness. In each, there was a new foundation for my mind to settle gently into.
It doesn't take much encouragement to get many of us into forests. But there is a huge difference between "goin' for a rip" on a mountain bike, or sweating into a lather on an arduous hike, than simply moseying in and coming to a stop. To touch. To see. To smell. To hear. To bathe. And to be.
NEXT WEEK: Ach du lieber, I'm speaking German!
We have always been drawn to forests in the way described by Scottish-American John Muir, the "Father of the National Parks." And never more than now, with the Japanese phenomenon of shinrin-yoku spreading across the globe. This week, I spent many a contemplative moment searching for my soul during an activity that raises a lot of eyebrows when you tell people you're going "forest bathing."
Once I explained that the activity involves no nudity or even water, I saw some slow nods of understanding. This zen-like bathing is simplicity itself – you are merely soaking in the natural environment and communing with the elemental forces of nature.
I decided for a DIY approach to forest bathing, even though a quick scan of Vancouver Island therapist listings reveals that there are several qualified practitioners of shinrin-yoku who would be happy to share their insights with me for a pretty healthy fee. But no. Off I went into the woods on my own, in much the same way a Hobbit might stumble into Fangorn Forest.
Forest bathing is not hiking. It is not adventuring. It is not strenuous in the least. You can start by simply wandering in slowly, and just stopping in a spot that speaks to you. For me, a particularly magical spot turned out to be the forests around Deep Cove in Vancouver. It seemed to promise a good return on my meditative meandering.
When forest bathing, you want to explore as much of your senses as you can, one at a time, deliberately and mindfully. If I'd been with a qualified shinrin-yoku therapist, I might have been encouraged to taste something, but there were too many mysterious leaves, berries and mushrooms for me to dare that one. So I settled on the other senses, which have been shown to boost immunity and mood when you explore them in a forest setting.
Sitting perfect still in a grove that I'd made sure was completely devoid of human sound, I waited for small noises to layer in. Birdsong is easy to pick out, but then you try to picture what kind of bird it might be and what message it could be sending. The more you let small sounds in, the more distant noises begin to creep in and assemble into a forest soundscape – babbling streams, brushing ferns swaying in a forest breeze, maybe even a twig snapping.
When you stare into the depths of a forest, you begin to see minute detail. A mighty tree that overwhelms the picture is now completed with smaller bushes, dark crevasses of rock and soil, and both new life and decaying death in equal measures. It is the cosmic story of birth and regeneration playing out in front of you, forcing you to into ever slower, slower and then slower rhythms until you are utterly at peace.
The best forest bathing, to me, is done solo even though it's quite common for whole groups to practice shinrin-yoku together. And, while some return to the same spot each time to reconnect with that forest magic, I found that different forests had different things to offer. At Neck Point Park near Nanaimo, it was the super-fresh aroma and low-lying greens of a deciduous forest that made me feel like I was truly bathing in nature. At Mystic Vale near Victoria's Mount Douglas Park, it was the towering Douglas Firs with their massive trunks that gave the setting a permanence and timelessness. In each, there was a new foundation for my mind to settle gently into.
It doesn't take much encouragement to get many of us into forests. But there is a huge difference between "goin' for a rip" on a mountain bike, or sweating into a lather on an arduous hike, than simply moseying in and coming to a stop. To touch. To see. To smell. To hear. To bathe. And to be.
NEXT WEEK: Ach du lieber, I'm speaking German!
Comments
Post a Comment