Beginnings, part two
Need to catch up? Start at the beginning of Beginnings with last week’s part one.
Soon I had a mental map of the largest fir and cedar trees within the acreage comprising Gazzam Lake Nature Preserve. None were ancient, but some were easily a couple hundred years old and their presence felt familiar and comforting.
Most of the big fir were on steep slopes that I assume made them difficult for loggers to harvest safely when this place was cleared. Cedar—less valuable as a commodity—were left when they grew in homogenous stands away from the more valuable fir. A number of venerable cedar groves dotted the park.
One such stand began to waylay me as I wandered through it each day. The trail up from the water’s edge climbed switchbacks for half a mile before it widened and flattened in this spot. All the uphill momentum of the trail thus far pooled here, and slowly eddied back on itself in the fluted trunks of the graceful cedar that stood well spaced throughout this perched bottom.
The cedar had a softening effect, their presence was a perfect complement of fluidity and groundedness. I was drawn to this particular spot and made a point of routing myself past it daily. I naturally slowed when I entered this space, circling as I progressed up the trail, head tilted to see the crowns of the trees swaying in the wind and the brooding sky beyond them.
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I began using my time in this grove to check in with my breathing as I was learning to do in physical therapy. That I had been essentially breathing wrong, and for a long time, was a disorienting discovery, and a great deal of focus was required to take a quality breath.
I made a point each day of stopping under my favorite tree and spending a few breaths there, concentrating on pulling air deep into my belly and back, relaxing the knot of my diaphragm, the perennial tightness in my lumbar spine. There was a push and pull with every inhalation and exhalation, a circular energy at work in the body, expanding and contracting different muscles as it moved through, one I could sense and orchestrate if I was mindful enough.
As I practiced finding this breath pattern under the cedar I found an ease in my chest that I didn’t feel anywhere else. A gift, it seemed, of proximity to the cedar at work next to me, who I knew was also moving energy up and down her trunk in a circular and infinite, life distributing cycle.
I was learning the correlation between this expansive way of breathing and my emotional wellbeing via my autonomic nervous system. As I found myself drawn to this tree to breathe, I became conscious that I was in effect coming to the forest to calibrate my nervous system.
Research for a writing assignment on Shinrin-yoku, or “forest bathing,” corroborated the sense of wellness time in the forest was giving me. I learned that spending time in trees, actively or at rest, measurably reduces blood pressure, cortisol, adrenaline, and blood-glucose levels [notes 1 + 2]. Correlating to this, in qualitative research people report an experience of decreased anxiety, depression, anger, confusion, and fatigue after time in the forest [note 3]. Being surrounded by trees also improves cognition and focus and eases some of the symptoms of ADHD [notes 4 + 5]. I learned that trees, cedars in particular, release phytoncides—chemicals that protect them from fungal and viral invasions—and that just by being under their canopy I was immersing myself in an aromatic chemical signature that boosted my immune system by spurring the creation of white blood cells [notes 6 + 7].
It wasn’t woo I was experiencing in the forest, it was wellbeing.
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At about the same time I was gifted the idea that a place I love could love me back through the lyrical prose of the late John O’Donohue in his meditation Beauty.
“How can we ever know the difference we make to the soul of the earth?” wrote O’Donohue. He suggested our places could have huge affections for us, missing us when we’re absent, rejoicing at our return.
He wrote that upon death a place might, “Miss your voice, your breath and the bright wave of your thought, how you walked through the light and brought news of other places.”
I had never consciously thought about a place as sentient before, let alone sentimental, but O’Donohue’s words struck me beautifully and named an experience I was curious to have, without knowing how to rationalize.
As I thought about it I realized that in a really practical way, this place had loved me first, providing me with a foundation from which to rebuild my physical health: miles of paths and buckets of phytoncides, given freely, undeterred by the snobbery of my ancient forest bias.
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With this realization I recognized that there were ways I could show my gratitude in return. If this place loved me, I wanted to make sure it knew I loved it back.
I’d been noticing long strands of invasive ivy, pulled from the furrowed trunks of the fir where it liked to climb, left on the margin of the trail. As spring progressed and the weather improved, more and more ivy was pulled and left in piles and coils on the trailsides and periodically cleared away again.
One day I came across a man, easily well into his eighth decade, dressed in worn work duds and armed with a small hacksaw, cutting down invasive holly saplings on the steep pitch that brings the trail up onto high ground just beyond the cedar grove I visited daily. He nodded as I passed and I thanked him for his efforts.
“I can’t dig ‘em out,” he said in reply, “Roots are too hard and I’m too old. So I come back every few springs and just cut ‘em down again.”
“Wow,” was as much of a response as I could muster.
“Someone’s got to,” he replied, turning back to his work.
Someone has got to, I thought as I walked by, humbled.
Before I left the forest that day I stopped for a few moments trailside to clear a budding network of ivy from an otherwise healthy tangle of Oregon grape and sword fern.
I began to view pulling invasive weeds from the forest as a small token of my appreciation for all it gave me freely. A daily tithe of five minutes of trailside clearing seemed the least I could do. If it’s his job, it’s my job too, I told myself.
Continued next week.
Notes:
Thompson, C. W., Roe, J., Aspinall, P., Mitchell, R., Clow, A., Miller, D. More Green Space is Linked to Less Stress in Deprived Communities: Evidence from Salivary Cortisol Patterns. Landscape and Urban Planning. 2012. Accessed on February 3, 2024.
Ohtsuka, Y., Yabunaka, N., Takayama, S. (1998). Shinrin-Yoku (Forest-Air Bathing and Walking) Effectively Decreases Blood Glucose Levels in Diabetic Patients.International Journal of Biometeorology. 1998. Accessed on February 3, 2024.
Tsunetsugu, Y., Lee, L., Park, B.-J., Tyrväinen, L., Kagawa,T., Miyazaki, Y. Physiological and Psychological Effects of Viewing Urban Forest Landscapes Assessed by Multiple Measurements. Landscape and Urban Planning. 2013. Accessed on February 3, 2024.
Kuo, F. E., Taylor, A. F. A Potential Natural Treatment for Attention-Deficit /Hyperactivity Disorder: Evidence From a National Study. American Journal of Public Health. 2004. Accessed on February 3, 2024.
Berman, M. G., Jonides, J., Kaplan, Stephen. The Cognitive Benefits of Interacting With Nature. Psychological Science. 2008. Accessed on February 3, 2024.
Li, Q. Effect of Forest Bathing Trips on Human Immune Function. Environmental Health and Preventative Medicine. 2010. Accessed on February 3, 2024.
Li Q, Kobayashi M, Wakayama Y, Inagaki H, Katsumata M, Hirata Y, Hirata K, Shimizu T, Kawada T, Park BJ, Ohira T, Kagawa T, Miyazaki Y. Effect of Phytoncide from Trees on Human Natural Killer Cell Function.International Journal of Immunopathology and Pharmacology. 2009. Accessed on February 3, 2024.
