I signed up to celebrate the Vernal Equinox with Shinrin-yoku—translated into English as Forest Bathing.
Here I was at the Arboretum at Penn State, not seeing a forest or planning to take a dip. This is a man-made, sculpted place. It’s too damn cold for the first day of spring. Shut up, Laurie
Lucy, leading our two-hour session, says the definition of the practice, which was named by the Japanese in the 1980s, is closer to “immersing yourself in nature”. This body-and-mind exercise highlights the importance of the natural world to human health.
It was a blustery, gray afternoon. Just a few days earlier my milk jug greenhouses were nestled all snug in their plant stand, blanketed in snow.
I’d read about this eco-therapy practice years ago, but it wasn’t until 2022 that a class came to the Arboretum at Penn State. I signed up but was wait-listed. Demand was so great that they scheduled a second class.
Lucy explains to the 8 of us that we are here to slow down, smell, see, feel, and hear nature. She leads us down the paved path. She gives us a prompt, lets us wander for 10 minutes or so, rings her chimes and we gather in a circle to share our discoveries.
The first prompt is the notorious March gusts that pummel our parkas. What signs of wind do you notice?
The bark on the birch trees flapping. The tall poplars shivering and bowing in the sky. The oak leaves waving goodbye to winter.
Lucy talks about the full moon the other night. The last full moon of winter is called the Worm Moon, she says, because worms start to get active. As do robins.
She asks us to look for signs of warming soil, of spring’s emergence.
Chipmunks digging holes. Snowdrops, Siberian squill, and winter aconite painting the brown earth into bursts of color. The vivid green and pink frills of new leaves on the false spiraea (which I grew along the bank of the Mill Creek for years, but never noticed her early face of spring).
Lucy approaches a bucket of 3-legged camo stools and asks us each to take one. Find a place that calls to you and sit for 10 minutes, absorbing everything.
I choose a spot near a Southern Magnolia, puzzled that it can survive Central Pennsylvania winters. The leathery, deep green leaves are scarred a bit. It was a hard winter. But the tree is strong and full, and I can’t wait to return to see and smell its southern blossoms. As I drift to memories of Charleston my attention is drawn to the silent power of the bare, gray wisteria trunks twisting and squeezing a steel pergola.
Others are mesmerized by a cocoon that looks so fragile dangling from a twig or the witch hazel’s yellow blossoms hugging each other on slender branches.
We gather around the koi pond. Weeks ago, it was frozen, Lucy recalls. Now the wind dances across the surface. We close our eyes, hold out our arms and turn until an interior voice calls to stop. We open our eyes. The sun peeks out of Cloudy Valley skies. A whisper of brilliant orange glides through the frigid water. Two more follow.
Lucy holds out a basket filled with scrolls tied in yarn. We each choose one. We find a spot to reflect. I sit on a bench dedicated to Jean: wife, daughter, sister, mother, aunt, grandmother, friend, and nurse. I unravel my poem on parchment:
Spring by Mary Oliver
“Somewhere a black bear has just risen from sleep and is staring down the mountain. All night in the brisk and shallow restlessness of early spring I think of her, four black fists flicking the gravel, her tongue like a red fire touching the grass, the cold water. There is only one question: how to love this world.
“I think of her rising like a black leafy ledge to sharpen her claws against the silence of the trees. Whatever else in my life is with its poems and its music and its glass cities, it is also the dazzling darkness coming down the mountain, breathing and tasting; all day I think of her—her white teeth, her wordlessness, her perfect love.”
The bamboo grove rustles. A distant woodpecker thrums on a snag. A helicopter churns above. I read about the perfect love of an awakening black bear and ponder womanhood, motherhood.
As we gather in our circle one last time, Lucy pulls out a thermos. Inside are heated river rocks (in a 200-degree oven). She gives one to each of us to hold in our hands. We share our thoughts.
One day at a time. Live in the moment. Seize the day. Notice the little things. Be present. All of the clichés simmer into the warmth of the smooth river rock I clutch. Laurie Lynch
Remembering: At end of day, I was getting ready to fix dinner and “pulled a Nonna”. I pushed up my long sleeves and out popped a tissue onto the floor. My mom always had a Kleenex or two at the ready, stuck in the cuff of her sweater.
Reading & Eating: I’m hooked on Amor Towles. I started with his 2021 novel, The Lincoln Highway, recommended by friend Jan who doesn’t steer me wrong. Love his writing style and clever storytelling. Then I moved to his first, Rules of Civility. It is captivating and I even found a great recipe for Closed-Kitchen Eggs, passed down by Katherine Kontent’s Ukrainian family. I’ve cooked lots of eggs in my life but this technique eluded me until now. It’s a winner—easy cleanup.
Closed-Kitchen Eggs
Whisk 2 eggs in a bowl with grated cheese and herbs. Pour into pan with heated oil and cover with lid. Peek occasionally, and when it’s done, you’ll find that the eggs are puffed, lightly browned without burning, and easy to lift out of the pan. Mmmm.
Next: A Gentleman in Moscow. That’s the name of Towles’ book I am reading, not a comment on the current, tragic world situation.
Fleur-de-Blog 