If you want to know what’s wrong with civilization look no further than forest bathing. That’s the practice, started in Japan and often with a guide, of walking through the woods slowly, silently while opening your senses to its wonders — the smell of pine trees, the sunlight filtering through the canopy, the sound of the wind and the crunching of leaves underfoot. The practice is said to reduce stress, improve the immune system, and even enhance creativity.
I have no problem with forest bathing, per se, even if I’m chagrined to discover that I may have been taking walks through the woods all wrong. Being present is perhaps the greatest gift nature has bestowed on sentient creatures, making oneself available to the crazy wonder of the world. It’s simultaneously the most authentic state of existence yet the hardest to achieve; especially today as we’re drowning in technology and run the risk of losing what we typically think of as the self. As A.I. becomes ever more integrated into our lives it might not be too long before we’re inseparable from the machines.
Perhaps that’s the greatest risk of artificial intelligence. Not that it will kick off a nuclear war without our permission or some other doomsday scenario. But that it will decouple us from higher consciousness. Unless, of course, A.I. is that higher consciousness, the next stage in evolution. I may be small-minded. But for all our imperfections I rather like our species, while acknowledging that there’s lots of room for improvement.
But I was giving forest bathing some thought in recent days as I did something that would seem to be antithetical to it. I’ve been clearing trails through our woods. Or rather reclaiming trails that nature is trying to claw back. The goal is to be able to walk freely through the forest without tripping over downed trees or getting snagged by brambles. But to achieve that state of grace requires heavy equipment.
For starters, there’s my new gas-powered Polaris UTV — that’s a utility terrain vehicle — that’s anything but Zen as it barges through the forest scattering fauna and crushing flora as it goes. And sitting in its cargo bay I’ve got two chainsaws — since my new electric one seems averse to cutting anything larger than a twig I’ve had to resort to a more conventional hydrocarbon based model — as well as a weed whacker, clippers, a hammer and nails to pound trail markers into the trees, and a small electric reciprocating saw for detail work.
I needed all that and more to carve a path to perhaps the most spiritual, forest bathable feature in our woods — a massive sycamore tree that, according to a formula employed by a tree expert at the Columbia Land Conservancy, was a seedling in 1776.
I don’t suffer from imposter syndrome. That’s for people that are posing. I freely admit that I have no idea what I’m doing. Nowhere does my ignorance manifest itself more profoundly than while attempting to perform chores that require tools. I blame my incompetence on two things. Generations of city dwelling ancestors who picked up the phone and called the handyman when things failed to function. Secondly, a dire lack of problem-solving skills that I suspect could probably be traced to some genetic flaw.
Everything seemed to be going fine until I encountered a downed tree. I mean I encountered lots of downed trees but most of them were small and decayed enough that I could push or pull them out of the way. Of course, I tripped, fell and impaled myself on branches a couple of times but that’s par for the course. What I lack in competence I more than make up for with ferocious goal-oriented zeal.
But this specimen, the last thing that stood between me and the seated viewing area we set up years ago to admire the sycamore, was too big to bully out of the way. Besides, it wasn’t lying flat on the ground. It had gotten snagged on a second tree during its descent so that half of it was suspended in the air.
This is probably where it would have been helpful during my youth to have had the benefit of a father or uncle who could have taught me proper chainsawing technique. It wasn’t long before my electric saw got wedged in the tree. So I retrieved the gas model to extricate its electric cousin. But that soon died, too. The only tool remaining in my arsenal — obviously clippers or a weed whacker weren’t up to the task — was my reciprocating saw.
It took a while but attacking the tree where it was suspended in midair — what could possibly go wrong — I eventually sawed through it, sending the remainder of the timber crashing to the ground and liberating the imprisoned electric chain saw.
After loading all of my equipment back into the Polaris, I paused briefly before fording a stream that reconnected me to the main trail. Turning the engine off, I listened to the babbling brook. Then an owl hooted in the distance. I think I was forest bathing. And I’d answered my question. No, trailblazing and bushwhacking, even for a higher purpose, is not forest bathing. It’s not even forest showering.
Ralph Gardner Junior is a journalist who divides his time between New York City and Columbia County. More of his work can be found in the Berkshire Eagle and on Substack.
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