(Shinrin-Yoku)
Shinrin-Yoku, which in English you’ll hear called Forest Bathing, is a practice of immersion in nature, and in particular in the forest. As one can see from the name, the term originated in Japan where the practice is a part of the culture.
Studies have shown actual physical benefits from forest bathing beyond the exercise of walking, and beyond the mental benefits and enjoyment of nature. Forest bathing has been shown to lower stress, boost the immune system, lower heart rate and blood pressure, and help one sleep better.
There is a park near my home where the township has recently blazed a series of trails around a couple of ponds, one of which is generously called Grass Lake. The park is still expanding (which I am helping with as a volunteer), and is open to hiking, biking, and trail running, as well as snow-shoeing and cross-country skiing during the winter.
No motor vehicles are allowed, and pets must be kept on a leash and cleaned up after.
There is good wildlife viewing, with a pair of Sandhill cranes making their seasonal home there, along with various other fauna, such as geese, ducks, wild turkey, various songbirds, deer, small mammals, several species of turtle and snakes, and numerous insect species. At least a handful of these different creatures are protected or endangered.
The flora is fairly diverse as well, with a secondary growth temperate forest with a mix of deciduous and conifer trees. White Pine (the state tree of Michigan), as well as Red Pine, Red and White Oak, Beech, and others are well developed.
The entire upper-half of lower Michigan (and other areas) was extensively logged during the second half of the 19th century and the first decades of the twentieth century. Though many types of trees were cut, it was the dominant White Pine that was the lumberman’s target. The White Pine was tall, strong, and straight, and cut into dimensional lumber easily. It was this wood that built many cities in America, and rebuilt Chicago after the great fire of 1871.
The lumbermen who came after mid-century, found an “inexhaustible” supply of White Pine, which only took them approximately sixty years to exhaust.
This particular part of Michigan was cleared of pine during the early part of the lumbering years because it is very near White Lake, which joins Lake Michigan, and was one of the several lakes dominated by lumber mills. As the years passed, timbering moved farther and farther inland, following the White River as far as it would take them.
After they were cut, pines quickly seeded themselves and slowly began to regrow. Since the lumbering days ended in the early decades of the twentieth century, pines that had started to regrow in those early years, hadn’t yet grown large enough to be cut profitably. There are some of those of the early second growth White Pine, which are now among the tallest and oldest in the state. (Notwithstanding an area of old-growth [400+ year old] white and red pines which were withdrawn from timbering by the widow of a lumberman, who donated the land as a tribute to the lumbering era. The place is Called Hartwick Pines State Park, and it lies near Grayling, Michigan. It is well worth a visit to see what Michigan looked like before the lumbering era began.)
The ponds grow and shrink from year to year, with Grass Lake earning its name when water tables are high, and splitting into marshy areas with ponds when they are low – such as this year.
The park is very close to my home, which makes it easy to get to for both volunteer trail work, as well as personal access for enjoyment. Which is what I did this past Sunday morning.
Normally I go to the trails for a combination of exercise and natural beauty. I like to look at the wildlife and enjoy the smells, but I also want the vigorous exercise I get from briskly walking. You could say that I’m picking them up and putting them down as I hike along the trails – working up a light sweat, and increasing my heart rate.
This is good to do, of course. Studies have shown that seventy-five minutes a week of light cardio exercise such as brisk walking (3-4 miles per hour) will reduce your chances of premature death by all-cause mortality by twenty-three percent. That’s pretty significant considering the sedentary lives most Americans live. Seventy-five minutes is really not so much time. Less than a half-hour three times a week. So, get out there and walk, even if it isn’t on the trail.
But this Sunday morning I didn’t walk briskly, but rather the opposite. I spent ninety minutes on a trail just over a mile long. I strolled slowly around the Grass Lake loop, stopping to view the flora and fauna along the trail, examine the spider webs near the base of trees, glistening with dew in the mild chill of Spring. Noticing the lichens growing on rocks, studying the fallen trees as they gradually decompose.
I looked (unsuccessfully) for morel mushrooms, and found (accidentally) a wild turkey egg that was laying in a cavity of a fallen tree.
I stopped to view the wild birds with the binoculars I brought with me, and took some pictures and video of the cranes as they made their haunting prehistoric calls.
This was Forest Bathing. I was immersed in nature, and I slowed down to enjoy the moment, rather than enjoying the exercise. I wasn’t focused on the walk, but on what I was walking through.
During that morning in the forest I had no thoughts about the world of men. No thoughts about politics, money, traffic, or what chores were waiting for me at home. I didn’t check off the accomplishment of exercise. I thought only of what I saw and smelled, and how the earth felt under foot.
It was remarkable how pleasant this was. It was just the slowing down that engaged the spirit of zen. For that hour and a half there was no past or future. There was only the present.
If you know about zen and have tried to experience it, you’ll know how hard it is to clear your mind and stay in the moment. You sit and breathe, paying close attention to the feeling of the air coming in and out, and you try not to let other thoughts come into your brain. This is because those other thoughts are about what has happened (and cannot be changed) and what might happen (which cannot be experienced yet), which can bring stress and worry.
Not that some time must be given to reflecting on the choices we made and actions we took; and that some planning and consideration should be directed toward what we will do in the future.
We should do these things too. But those thoughts will constantly be with us, and they will overwhelm our spirit with the pressure of regret and worry over changes and what we cannot control.
We can only live in the now. It is only when we pay close attention to the moment we are in that we find real contentment. It is when we focus only on what is happening now, what we are doing as we are doing it, that we find peace and are in harmony with the world.
Forest bathing is a shortcut to that. Don’t go for exercise all the time. Don’t look for how many miles you can cover in your allotted time. Don’t measure the success of the moment by some accomplishment of completion. Just be there, and listen and watch for what nature is doing.
The success of my forest bath along that trail wasn’t in getting ninety-minutes of exercise, nor in completing a mile and a quarter of walking, nor in taking some pictures. The success was only in being in the moment for some time, and being truly aware of what was around me. Just being without a goal. Just existing. Just living.
All individual life is temporary. And perhaps all life will one day come to an end after billions of years. Maybe Earth will be demolished to make space for a hyperspace bypass. (Tips cap to Douglas Adams.) And perhaps life will start again some billions of years after that. (If the concept of years or billions even fits in that context.)
When the tree loses a limb, or when its roots lose their grip on the earth, it falls to the earth and begins its slow decay. It will continue to be food for other fauna and flora, from rodents and insects, to lichens and fungi – with its mycelium spreading out and connecting to the rest of the forest.
So to with us, or it should be. For though our consciousness ends when our brains stop functioning, our mortal remains can be absorbed by nature, and in so doing continue to be a part of life for as long as life itself goes on.
(Image by JeffreyGammon – Own work, CC BY 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=158156832_)
Individual Sandhill cranes will live for thirty or so years, but they have been around for millions of years as a species. They are one of the oldest existing bird species by a lot. When I see them flying in pairs and hearing their chilling cries echo around me, it is easy to remember that they are descendents of dinosaurs. (As are all birds, but few others conger the images of pterodactyls so effectively.)
Each crane lives only so long, but the species is older than humans by many multiples. And likewise, each of our human life spans is limited, but the species has continued for three-hundred thousand years, after evolving from other homo sapiens before that, and will go on and will continue to evolve (probably, and that is partly up to us).
We live for today and also for the species and also for life itself. We share DNA with Sandhill cranes, as we do with all life. We are part of the whole of life, and when we engage with life in close and immediate contact, we feel that connection and can see in a glimpse the stardust of our origins.
Take a bath – in a forest near you.
(All photos by me, except as credited).