by Donna Quesada Schollhammer: It is winter, and all the leaves have now fallen.
As I walk, I gently kick through a thick blanket of golden and rust-colored leaves, mostly Oak and Poplar. I hear them crunch with every step.
The afternoon sun is a welcome visitor after a week of rain and 27 degree nights. Something scurries in the distance and disappears into the hollowed inside of a long-fallen, mossy tree trunk. I quickly saw the telltale stripe on its back… it was a chipmunk.
I sit on a rock to take it all in more deeply.
In Japanese, Shinrin-yoku or “forest bathing,” refers to the practice of mindfully immersing oneself in the forest for the purpose of healing and greater well-being. This enlightened idea was introduced in 1982 as a form of preventative health care, by the Japanese Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry, and Fisheries.
Forest bathing is said to reduce stress, regulate blood pressure, boost immunity, improve mood, and promote relaxation by enlisting the senses in a way that is very different than in our ordinary days in a city or a workplace environment.
All the senses come alive… sight, sound, touch, and smell, in a calm, fresh and natural setting. The idea is to either walk meditatively, or sit in the forest, and take it all in, without the interruption of cell phones or excessive conversation. The point is to be totally present to the offerings and aliveness of the forest.
Even though all the leaves have fallen, and are “dead,” now, in the heart of winter, it is so alive. It is in a process of perpetual regeneration, and the soul reads this message. It resonates with the continuous unfolding of it all, a cyclical rebirthing that has been going on since the beginning of time.
It perceives in a way that goes beyond our intellectual understanding. The soul takes solace in the story of regeneration. It too, is part of this process. This is reassuring.
You can lose everything, like every single tree in sight, and still be standing. You can be strong in your nakedness and vulnerability. You are still thriving. It’s just a down-time. Everything comes around again… and again. Even the broken trunks are still standing.
And the crooked ones have character. It wouldn’t be the same if they were all uniform. We all have our place and our unique countenance.
When you stop and listen… really listen, you hear things you didn’t hear before. A distant bird, a trickle of water. Some movement in the distance… maybe a squirrel. Some tapping… a woodpecker.
The air is different in the forest. It is alive. It is oxygen rich. It is cool. You begin to smell things you didn’t notice before. The scent of pine. Or the earth, itself… a fusion of moist soil, decaying leaves, and the fresh, damp smell of moss and moisture.
In the forest, even the lowliest thing has a role to play in this ecosystem.
It is winter, and all the branches are bare. Everything looks brown and grey, at first. But the moss at the foot of the trees is a brilliant green. This color is spellbinding!
The emotional and mental repose that emerges from this sensual bath of natural aromas, soft sounds and magical visions, is profound and spontaneous. It happens on its own, like an intuitive awareness that was always there, but just needed reminding.
The bird sounds become the happy chatter of nearby and distant friends. The trees are ancient sentinels that are there to protect you. They lend a benevolent presence to the land. They make the world a friendlier place.
The soul understands its place in it all… it is but a small part of this landscape, this self-regulating network, teeming with life and beauty. We are small but strong. How big could our woes be?
