How 30 Days of Forest Bathing Changed My Life
This is an early snippet from the chapter in my upcoming book, Slow & Strenuous. Enjoy this preview!
Breathing in, I feel the humid, late-summer air fill my nostrils and circulate into my lungs.
Breathing out, I sense the energy and power of the forest around me.
Breathing in, I stare intently at the full moon, the Sturgeon Moon, hovering through the trees above me.
Breathing out, I take in the sun’s final light, reflected off the Super Moon that is guiding my path.
It is mid-August, the night of the final full moon of summer. The next time the moon arrives in this state I will be back at work, leaves will be changing, and a large percentage of my blood will be diluted by apple cider. As I slowly stroll through the forest on this serene evening, I can’t help but think about all of the incredible experiences I have had this summer, and how much growth the experiments I have done these past few months have created in me. I feel a deep sense of calm, of confidence, of acceptance that, truth be told, I have not felt in quite some time (if ever).
I am in this forest under the Sturgeon Moon, named after the Great Lakes fish that became more active and, therefore, eaten this time of year by Native Americans; a fish I have only seen once, as a massive decaying corpse on the shores of Lake Ontario. The purpose of this experience is to bathe under the light of the moon. And no, this does not mean I am about to strip naked and wade into the murky, stagnant, leech-filled pond that lies next to the path. I am here to forest bathe, a practice that has gained notoriety and popularity over the last decade. And one that, over the previous two weeks, has thoroughly cleansed me in a variety of ways. This bath just happens to be extra special, being under the full moon. It marks the halfway point of my forest bathing experiment, going for a complete moon cycle, and ending with a more “intensive” experience.
Even before that grand finale, though, I am feeling the profound effects of this meditative practice. I am already convinced of its need to be more widely adopted in society. And I am already calculating ways I can do this more in my normal work days.
For now, though, I remember that I am here to be present. I bring my focus back to my breath and the soft Earth beneath my feet. The crickets provide the soundtrack as a light breeze with autumnal undertones guides me further down the path, illuminated by the mirror above.
—
In the 1980s, a young Japanese doctor noticed that something wasn’t quite right with modern society. The pace of life was increasing dramatically. More and more people were moving into Tokyo, which was already one of the most densely populated cities on the planet. “Commuter Hell” began to form as workers pushed and squeezed their way into overstuffed trains that would rocket them to a job that, more than likely, required that they work an objectively unhealthy amount of hours. And, if their train was missed, the most convenient solution was to be stuffed into a capsule hotel, lie on a bed, and watch TV until they fell asleep and continued the unnatural routine early the next morning.
The young doctor was confused. How could a country that was mostly covered in forests, and that had such a deep, rich tradition of being connected with nature, so quickly turn into a society disconnected from the natural rhythms and landscape of the Earth? How was it that a population whose traditional spiritual beliefs reflected presence in the beauty of nature had replaced that mindset with an overhurried, overworked dogma of increasing production in sterile urban landscapes? And was there a relationship between the literal “death from overwork” (known as karoshi) and this fast-paced, urban lifestyle?
By this time, the term “technostress” was coined to describe the unhealthy results of too much time spent with technology. Whether it involves watching too much TV or, as it stands now, checking your phone too often or spending too many hours online, technostress can result in symptoms such as anxiety, headaches, mental fatigue, short temper, and even depression. Couple this with fast-paced urban life and the chances of developing health issues compounds. Stress levels go up when people are in urban areas compared to less densely populated locales; in part due to the overstimulation that comes with loud noises, crowded streets, polluted air, and visual stimuli. And we are now an urban, technocentric species, with more than half of the human population living in urban areas and access to the internet and smart-devices compounding by the year. Even in the 1980s doctors were noticing the impacts of increased urbanization coupled with technostress. Which is why that young doctor, Qing Li, sought ways to help people alleviate this stress and find a method to help people live more present, calm, peaceful lives in spite of the increasing industrial and technological stressors they were facing.
His solution was simple: get people into the forest.
And it worked.
Dr. Li is known as the founder of a therapy called Forest Bathing (otherwise known as shinrin-yoku). The premise is uncomplicated and universally accessible: spend time mindfully exploring the outdoors while engaging all of your senses. Whether it involves slowly walking through a forest, camping under the stars, having lunch in a park surrounded by wildflowers, or even sitting at the base of a solitary tree, forest bathing simply requires the practitioner to find a natural space and engage in it with as many senses as possible, sans distraction. The key is to leave your work, phone, and concrete environment behind in order to spend meaningful time surrounded by the natural world (regardless how big or small that patch of natural world may be). And while this started from a deep intuition that time in nature is beneficial, it took a few decades for science to catch-up with our own inner wisdom.
In 1990, a preliminary research group in Japan led a forest bathing expedition in order to determine the mental and physiological effects of spending an extended time slowly walking through the forest. While the trip was not necessarily a rigorous study, it was found that the participants reported improved mood and increased energy after the expedition; a promising start. Fourteen years later, in 2004, Dr. Li helped to found the Forest Therapy Study Group and conducted a more rigorous study on the effects of forest bathing. What they found was that, primarily due to a decrease in the release of cortisol (otherwise known as the “stress hormone”), participants in the forest bathing experiment (as well as subsequent ones conducted in the years since) experienced lower levels of cortisol and adrenaline, lower blood pressure, increased heart-rate variability, better sleep (about an extra hour per night), less anxiety, and overall improved emotional disposition. To put it simply, spending a few hours to a few days wandering in a forest chills us out…a lot.
Intuitively, this makes sense. While we may not realize it, we have become accustomed to constantly elevated stress levels. How often do we actually sit and do nothing but stare out the window nowadays? Instead of letting our brains relax, we are constantly shifting from one “crisis” to the next, be it checking our phone, catching up on email, seeing if anyone liked our post, watching the world go to hell on the news, thinking about our endless to-do lists, or just doing one more thing before we stop working and attempt to go to sleep. This may be normal, but it is certainly not natural. And so it is not surprising that disconnecting from these habits, especially for an extended length of time, would allow our brains to finally breathe a sigh of relief and calm down. Staring aimlessly into swaying branches while listening to birdsong and babbling brooks is what we evolved to do in our spare time; not check our email ten times an hour to see if anyone wants to chat.
The idea of forest bathing is especially pertinent as the pace of life continues to quicken and become more disconnected from nature. Journalist Richard Louv, in his book Last Child in the Woods, coined the phrase “Nature-Deficit Disorder” as a way to describe the mental and physical ailments that come from spending too much time indoors and on screens. His review of the research on the impacts of this lifestyle led to similar findings as the Japanese teams who were inspired to successfully attempt forest bathing as a treatment. The effects are especially apparent on children, who, according to the Children & Nature Network, spend 44 hours per week in front of a screen and merely 10 minutes per day playing outdoors. The constant stimulation that comes from our devices, paired with a lack of time outside to let the brain relax, may result in increased cases of Attention-Deficit Hyperactive Disorder (ADHD), behavioral problems in schools, and stunted development of linguistic, social, and emotional regulation skills. Whereas time spent in nature, in particular unstructured play outdoors, can alleviate many of these issues and result in more positive outcomes.
As we spend more time indoors and in front of our screens, we become less connected to the natural world in which we evolved. In Reconnection: Fixing our Broken Relationship with Nature, Professor Miles Richardson argues that, as our society has become more reliant on industrial technology, we have lost the “spark” that makes us connect with, and care for, the natural world. Whereas just a few hundred years ago most people saw nature as a magical place worth connecting with, many of us now see nature as something that is other, separate, a nuisance at worst or merely a background at best. Part of this has been due to less need to interact with the environment, while we have also fallen prey to the attention-seeking behaviors of companies desperate for a bit of our focus in order to advertise and sell to us. The oak tree across the street does not care whether or not you pay attention to it; the social media app that just sent you a notification does, and will do anything it can to steal your attention. And so we fall into the trap and let our attention consistently being diverted from notification to notification, unaware of the calm rhythms of nature that surround us and don’t require our noticing to continue onwards. Over time this leads to a destructive feedback loop: lack of attention results in lack of noticing, which leads to lack of awareness, which fosters a lack of caring. And when we don’t care, we don’t love, which means we don’t even attempt to protect or preserve. Why watch the leaves change when I could see if my crush liked my newest photo or if my boss approved of my presentation? Why care about the trees being torn down for a parking lot when I never notice them anyway? There are more important matters at hand. At least that is the lie we tell ourselves.
Thankfully, this apathy towards nature can change very quickly. Richardson found in his research that spending time in nature was not enough to forge a connection with it. Oftentimes, we use nature as a setting to accomplish something; some goal like a hike, paddle, or run. When doing this, feelings of nature connectedness do not increase in any meaningful way. Instead, we need to slow down and consciously observe our surroundings and attach value to them. This could mean taking photographs of natural scenes we find to be pretty or even simply writing down three things we thought were beautiful and interesting while going on a walk. Simply acknowledging that something in nature moved us in an emotional way is enough to forge a deeper connection. Suddenly the breeze isn’t an unnoticed phenomenon that ruffles our hair while we respond to a text; it becomes a refreshing moment on a warm day. Or a tree is no longer an unseen feature in an overlooked landscape; it morphs into a beautiful ecosystem all on its own with strength, wisdom, and merciful shade. These value-adding exercises almost immediately turn nature from “other” to “ours”. It’s amazing how fast we can begin to care if we just give it a chance.
I tried this on an impromptu experiment with my students. Earlier in the year, my sunrise morning routine had come up and they were shocked. Wait, they protested, you’re not checking social media? Or email? How early do you wake up? And then, my favorite question:
You seriously just sit outside and do nothing for thirty minutes?
I responded that, yes, I have been doing that. And that it was delightful and they should all try it. One student raised her hand and protested:
“I don’t even have 10 minutes in my day to just stare out a window. I’m too busy.”
Knowing I could push a little with this class, I responded quickly:
“Really? What’s your screen time? A couple hours, maybe? You’re telling me you can’t spend 10 minutes less on your phone and use that time to watch birds?”
A quiet realization settled on the classroom. I knew it was not their fault; their minds have been manipulated by attention-seeking companies since they were children. But I saw an opportunity to forge a connection. At that moment, I told my class to come to the window and look at the scene outside. Scattered across the ground were about fifty robins, all hopping around trying to find delicious worms to munch on. They scuttled about in patterns underneath the pine trees. I stood in the back and watched as my students became transfixed on the birds. A group of boys began commentating like it was a sporting event. Another student noticed a woodpecker on a tree, which led to others trying to find it. Here, in just a few minutes, a room of twenty-five apathetic teenagers became transfixed by the simple beauty of nature. Afterwards, I told my students that, when they finish work, the best thing they could do would be to stare out the window for a minute and let their brain rest. Sure, not everyone followed this advice. But as the year went on I noticed more and more students stare at the trees while they waited for their next assignment. Some students began spending their break-time at the window instead of on their phones. And as the weather became more pleasant towards the end of the year, the question, “Can we have class outside today?” became more frequent. I always obliged to this request. I felt it would have been cruel to deny it. Over time behavioral problems became less frequent, I made connections with students who were previously distant, and a stronger sense of community developed amongst classmates. A small sample size, sure, but a powerful one.
—
My own history supports the benefits of forest bathing, even if I was partaking in the practice unknowingly. I grew up in an area surrounded by forests, tucked into the bottom of a glacial-cut valley in Upstate New York. Just about every day I would venture out of the house and stroll through the hardwoods towards the rushing creek in my backyard. Or, if I was up for an adventure, I would climb the large hill that I lived at the bottom of and explore the ancient paths of a forgotten ski resort and sneak up upon the hunting blinds that scattered the landscape. During summers in high school, my friends and I would camp out for multiple nights in the neighborhood woods completely on our own, as if we had created our own little society hidden from adults. If I was ever stressed out, worried, anxious, or had a problem to work through, a long walk in the woods always did the trick. My parents learned that, when I said I’d be going out for a walk, I could return anywhere from fifteen minutes to four hours, depending on how I felt. Eventually they stopped asking how long I would be gone for; they learned that not even I knew the answer. I didn’t know that these walks (or “forest baths”) were inherently lowering my blood pressure, reducing my chances of developing depression, or improving my sleep. I just knew that, when I walked in the woods, I always felt better. It was a part of my identity and my life. And that was all that mattered.
As I grew older, predictably, my time in the forest waned. I moved into apartments surrounded by more fast-food chains than white pines. I was housed in complexes surrounded by private, strictly managed land instead of the relaxed meandering landscape of my youth. As responsibilities and expectations piled up, jetting off on a spontaneous four-hour walk with no communication became unrealistic and irresponsible; my walks had to be timed, scheduled, and worked into more important matters. Especially since I could no longer just step out my front door and immerse myself in a pristine Northeastern woodland. Plus, trespassing is not as cute when you are a thirty-one year old man as it is when you’re just a teen wandering aimlessly about. Being caught at my age would result in me becoming the latest source of unnecessary anxiety peddled on the local town Facebook page. I would rather stay hidden.
With each passing year, as my connection to nature has waned, I have become more stressed, worried, and anxious. Maybe it’s because I have more to lose now that I’ve built up a life and family. It could also be the weight of responsibility that comes with being relied upon by so many people. And, of course, the events of the past year simply compounded upon the little daily stressors that I face each day.
When we moved into our new home the opportunity for walks in the forest suddenly became readily available again. There are patches of woods all around the neighborhood, and there is even a pristine pond just a few minutes away that I could walk to every single day. Since it is new, though, my house still does not feel quite like a home; I am still a bit disconnected from it. As I read more about forest bathing I thought that, perhaps, more time in the forest could cure what is ailing me. What if the prescription to my disconnection, frayed attention, and constant stress is simply more time in the woods? Even if that time has to be scheduled, condensed, or compromised to accommodate Gab (who is decidedly not an outside person), returning to a daily ritual of sauntering through the woods would presumably do more good than harm. And, hopefully, it could help me reconnect with who I am at my core.
Deep down I feel a gap between my current self and my younger self. It does not feel like there is a continuous path that brought me to where I am today. Instead, it almost feels like there’s a blank spot, where suddenly I appeared in my current form having forgotten who I was in my youth. I often sense a nagging feeling of being “someone else” instead of my true self, which follows me around each day. It’s as if I forged the identity of a “successful and productive adult” who does “successful and productive things” instead of living authentically. At certain points throughout the past few years, everything from my lifestyle habits, emotions, and even my haircuts and clothing style have felt like I have been putting on the costume of someone I felt like I should be, not who I actually am. This has led to an unavoidable sense of hollow-ness that keeps me from being wholly happy and fulfilled with my sense of being.
Before the responsibilities and expectations and bills and global pandemics began piling up, I always figured myself out while mindlessly wandering in the woods. And if there is one thing that has fallen by the wayside in my adult life, it is that. Not necessarily the occasional, longer hikes that I have continued to do (when carefully scheduled on the calendar). What matters most to me are those spontaneous strolls with no goal or mindset or target in particular. Those have the largest impact. So when I think of who I am deep down, that is the image that comes up: puttering through the forest with no goal in particular to accomplish other than being alive and enjoying my precious life in nature. It is the image that resonates more than any other with my soul.
Without this practice, though, that “gap” persists and I feel a bit lost on a daily basis. Heck, if I wasn’t lost, I wouldn’t be on this journey in the first place. I wouldn’t have put off those things I wanted to do for so long. I wouldn’t have been taking my life for granted so frivolously. I wouldn’t have slipped into the seductively convenient and comfortable (but less fulfilling) habits that make up my days. I would feel like my own person again.
Somewhere out there little me resides, waiting to be remembered and nurtured into a whole person. He is waiting to feel less like a “productive and successful adult in society” and more like Peter just continuing to live his life.
And he can only be found in the forest.
—
The sun peeks through the labyrinth of trees like golden swords slicing to the ground as I take my first steps into this new terrain. It is nothing special; just a small patch of woods with a path at the edge of my neighborhood that borders a creek. For months I have driven, biked, and walked past this without a second thought. As I begin my forest bathing experiment, though, I need to find a regular location that I can access easily. It may not be the large forest that surrounded my childhood home, with endless trails, cliffs, and a roaring creek, but it’s something.
Stepping into the path feels like being transported into another world. Behind me is a cliché, bland suburbia. In front now lies a magical, whimsical forest that is sure to house fairies and gnomes in its hidden crevices. Walking onto the path feels like being hugged by the Earth, as if the trees are saying, “It’s okay. You’re home now.” As I move along I spot a massive mushroom exploding with growth on the edge of a decaying oak stump (a black-staining polypore, I find out later). Beyond that, reeds sway in the breeze as they emerge from the mud, exposed from low water levels due to lack of rain. Through the reeds a movement catches my eye and I freeze in place: a great blue heron. It is seeking out its breakfast, carefully moving in the shallow water, gaze intently focused on potential menu items below. I gasp, and it hears me. Without even turning its head, its wings spread to show off its massive span as it gracefully levitates off the ground and floats further downstream, away from my prying eyes. I am disappointed before remembering that I too would not like to be stared at by some stranger in the diner booth next to mine. I’ll be more subtle next time.
Further down the path a mist gathers along the wider part of the stagnant creek that, when mixed with the low-angled light of the golden sunrise, twinkles and reminds me that the space filled by mere air is not actually vacant, but full of matter and its own characteristics. I swoop around the bank and reemerge further down the road, once again brought back into the standard suburban landscape. The whole walk takes a mere thirty minutes. The landscape is ordinary and overlooked. I don’t see another person the entire time I am in there (a trend that continues as I frequent this path almost daily throughout the month). For the first time, though, I have looked deeply at it. I notice as many plants, trees, animals, mushrooms, and characteristics as I can. I identify new plants, have a run-in with a gorgeous bird, and now have lifeforms that I want to check-in on each day to see how they change as the season begins to turn. In a way, I feel like a true local. Someone who is connected to this little plot of land in a meaningful way. All it took was noticing the habitually unnoticed.
Slow strolls in the woods on sunny mornings are pleasant and easy. As the month goes on I begin to love my new morning routine, which now couples a slow walk meant to foster intentional noticing of my surroundings with my previous ritual of watching the sunrise every day. While sitting on the deck and watching the golden light slowly work its way down the trees is fulfilling, watching the same process while under the canopy of a forest is a much more immersive experience. My days feel like they take longer when they begin with this ritual, and I look forward to seeing my friends each day: the black-staining polypore, the Virginia creepers, the reeds, the oaks, maples, and elms, and occasionally, if I’m lucky, the great blue heron. While slow, these forest baths are anything but strenuous.
Until the rain comes.
It is a dark, gloomy late afternoon as I sit in my car with the remnants of a tropical storm pounding on the hood. The sun is going to set in an hour, but it is impossible to tell since it is hidden behind a thick mass of clouds sweeping across the entire Northeast. While Gab is out at a friend’s house, I decide to check out a large nature preserve on the north-end of town that I have driven by many times but have never stepped in. At first my laziness almost got the best of me. Why do I have to go when it’s pouring? I thought in an attempt to justify my unwillingness to venture outside. I can just wait a day and go in the sunshine. But, due to the rain, I did not embark on my usual morning forest bath. And a commitment is a commitment, even when it rains. When I was younger this would not have been an issue at all. My friends and I played outside when it was pouring, snowing, a hundred degrees, or five-below-zero. It didn’t matter. The desire to play outside triumphed over all conditions. Now, my desire to be comfortable keeps me in more often than not, and I have grown to hate that about myself. Besides, I think as I put on my hat and prepare to step out into the rain, I might as well have a true forest bath.
Immediately soaked, I venture down a dark path that provides some slight relief from the rain, thanks to the canopy of leaves above. The path is wide and soft; beautiful for walking and perhaps skiing come winter time. While the trees are not old-growth (this was clearly farming land a generation ago and has since been left to rewild) they are of sufficient size to immerse me in their embrace. As the path continues the sound of the road fades into the distance, and I am left with the comforting sound of rain bouncing off the millions of leaves above.
When forest bathing, it is important to engage all the senses. Sure, walking around and looking at the scenery is great. The full effect, though, comes from intentionally creating a sensory experience for ourselves. This requires not just looking, but listening mindfully to the sounds of the forest. It means feeling the breeze and perhaps the trees themselves that we share the space with. It invites us to quite literally stop and smell the roses (or the pines) and, if we are brave enough, to taste the world around us. For me, this involves closing my eyes, thrusting my head upwards, and sticking out my tongue to catch the rain drops falling from above. It’s a pretty meta experience to realize I’m drinking rainwater that has traveled halfway across the globe, in a storm that originated off the West African coast a couple of weeks ago. That is what it feels like to have a connection with the world, not the empty promises of imagined connection made by social media companies.
Drenched to the bone thanks to my old raincoat alerting me in the worst possible way that it is no longer up for these types of jobs, I begin my exit from the forest once it becomes too dark to make out individual features on the ground. I realize that on a dark, rainy night like this I could have easily stayed inside and comfortable. It would have been the reasonable decision to make. And yet I am the only unreasonable adult out here in the wild, sopping wet, with a huge grin on my face. The wind begins to pick up and the darkened trees start swaying above me. Mercifully it is a warm breeze that sweeps across my face and dries a tiny bit of the rain dripping down from my cheeks.
I feel alive. All of my senses are connected with the Earth. My sense of time disintegrates and any anxieties or worries or unfinished “to-dos” slip beyond my consciousness. Immersed in the forest, just a short drive from my home, the child inside me awakens. This is his favorite thing to do: romp around the woods with no real purpose and no concern for outside conditions. I toss a lifeline to him that he examines for a moment before smiling, giggling, and crouching down to pick it up. Holding my end, while he holds his, for the first time in years I feel a true connection between the two of us. And it's one I promise to hold dearly as I catch a glimpse of my wet, dirty, glowing face in the rearview mirror upon my return to the car…
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