🌲🧼 Forest Bathing As a Way of Life

“When I sleep near the trees, 

the sounds, they scare me, 

but I’m stronger the next day.”

~ Melissa & Paul (NJ punk scene circa 2012)

A few weeks ago, I was standing at Walmart’s filtered water refill machine, waiting for my 5-gallon bottle to top off when the radio DJ caught my ear. “Forest bathing is supposed to be really good for you,” she said. 

Immediately, I chuckled and thought, my life is a forest bath.

It’s not far from the truth 

I’ve referred to my house as, “an extension of the outdoors” more than once. Home is a 1,200-square-foot farm cottage on 10.16 acres of land. No matter where I sit, I’m never far from a window overlooking my meadow or the surrounding forest. With four dogs, the french doors that open up to the woods behind my house are constantly letting in fresh air, no matter how cold it may be.

My view

Depending on the season, the floor and surfaces may be scattered with dirt (we call it soil), water, snow, mud, hay, wood chips, sawdust, chicken feathers, and plant matter of all types.

It’s easy to feel small here. To know my place in the grand scheme of the natural world.

I watch the sun rise and set nearly every day, and track its progress across the horizon. 

I never don’t know the phase of the moon (currently full and in Leo).

I’ve never been so in tune with the seasons. 

This past weekend, we celebrated Imbolc, the halfway point between the Winter Solstice and Spring Equinox. We also shattered centuries-old records for cold temperatures here in New England. It was so cold that we taped spare insulation over nearly all our windows, and kept the drapes drawn on the others. It was the most separated I felt from the outdoors in a long time.

I brought my chickens indoors and kept them in a dog crate in my office — something I hope they forgive me for one day. My right hand is covered in rooster bites of a most unfriendly nature.

Angry birds

With all my animals safe within the sanctuary of this modern-day Hobbit hole, my husband and I tucked into bed. Jason, hearing-impaired as he is, had no trouble sleeping through the night. I, on the other hand, sat up for hours listening to the wind howl as the bitter cold caused the house frame to twist and shift. 

As I sat wondering whether the high-pitched screams I was hearing came from the wind or a distressed woman standing outside my window, I said a quick prayer for the wildlife that shares this land with us. 

That the critters and creatures had their own safe and warm burrows. 

That the trees who protect my home from the worst velocity of such winds were resilient enough to bend and sway without snapping.

I’d said similar prayers in the days leading up to the storm. We humans, with our advanced technology, are able to predict such weather and take the necessary precautions. I was able to bring extra firewood — and my chickens — indoors before it became dangerous for any of us to be outside. And, as I took my dogs for an extra-long walk through the forest, I consciously warned any wildlife that might be listening of the impending freeze, urging them to stock up on food and take shelter before it got too cold.

I’m not sure they heard me, but I’m quite confident our animal neighbors possess an innate awareness of weather that surpasses any push notification. Walking amongst the trees, I’m vaguely aware of the wealth of information buzzing around me. The colors, sounds, and smells, my human body cannot detect or define. We’re not equipped to sense or perceive it, but it’s there. 

Forest bathing as a way of life has taught me that much. And more.

Laying awake in bed that night, I couldn’t help but revisit memories of being out there in such winds. 

The time I made the hard decision to follow other climbers back down Mt. Shasta — turning around less than 200 meters from the summit — instead of waiting or pushing through the winds I’d later learn had reached 90mph speeds.

Or that night I spent alone and terrified, leaning my back up against the wall of my tent to keep it from blowing over during a wind storm in southern Utah.

Even all the way to childhood, where a distant memory of turning my face into the wind while clinging excitedly to the shoulders of a parent remains.

Being connected to nature — the beauty and the fury — makes me feel more alive. More humble. More appreciative and respectful of the powers that perpetuate all I’ll never completely understand about life and all I cannot control.

So now the storm is passed and here we are. Closer to the equinox than the solstice, and shaking to free ourselves from winter’s deadly clutches.

But another thing I’ve learned from living out in the woods is that winter’s about to tighten its grip. We’re in for one last squeeze. Maybe last weekend was it, maybe not.

I’ve started comparing the cycle of seasons through the year with the cycle of the sun through a day. Tracking the temperature with the sunrise, you begin to see a pattern emerge.

We wake before dawn, which is the coldest time of the day. We watch the temperature fall a few degrees from the time we get up to the time the sun clears the treetops.

And in the cycle of the year, that’s where we’re at. The promise of warmer days is making itself known while the cold sinks just a little bit deeper. It can feel a little frustrating, like when you’ve been trudging uphill forever, only to find another small hill. But what can you do? Take it in stride and trust you’ll get to the top when you get there. Unless, of course, you’re on a 14 K-foot mountain who isn’t in the mood to entertain guests. Then you turn around.

This time of the year makes me think of the 9 of Wands tarot card. Maybe we’re over it. Maybe we’re questioning our ability to make it through this one. Maybe we’re feeling paralyzed by the opposing forces of beauty and cruelty and not understanding why it’s all happening. Or maybe that’s just me.

If you find yourself in need of some extra nourishment, you can revisit my list of 20 ideas to shake the winter blues.

Stay strong, my friends. I hope you’re safe and warm. The light is growing stronger, and it’s almost time to tap the maple trees. Sweetness follows.

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As always, thank you for reading,

XoLauren

PS - In honor of Black History Month, I’d love to share one of my favorite Substacks: Sharon Hurly Hall’s Anti-Racism Newsletter I’ve been reading for years, and find her posts engaging and enlightening. Please take a look!

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