IT’S! ANN! I yelled and waved my arms by way of greeting, unrecognizable to women I’ve known for over a decade, as they emerged from their frozen cars. My body stood covered in down parka and snow pants, two layers of wool socks and boots, my hair underneath hat and hood, my face shielded by a mask. Only my eyes peeked out, barely visible through the darkness and driving snow.
After similarly exaggerated introductions IT’S! SARAH! HEY SARAH, IT’S! JULIE! the seven of us tramped through a foot of snow from the parking lot, past the playground, and toward the woods, mummified in sufficient winter gear to keep us warm outdoors for the next two hours. Typically a chatty group, we moved in silence, as requested in Shinrin Yoku practice.
Kate, our good friend and nature guide, invited us to consider the space in between two trees ahead of us as a portal–away from the concerns and stresses of daily pandemic life, and into our forest bath. “Bath” referred to the immersion of our senses into nature, and felt particularly apt given the perpetual facewash from the snowstorm. Weather which might’ve sent me scurrying to my car under normal circumstances became a novelty, a visceral wake-up call from endless streaming, zooming, reading, puzzling, eating, and waiting-out the Coronavirus threat.
I relished the idea of escaping my head for two hours. Instead, my head took me to a different place.
Having experienced forest bathing with Kate before, I knew a bit of what to expect: I became acquainted with a couple of trees, laid flat on the earth to stare at the sky, feeling the new snow support me like a memory-foam mattress. I let icy flakes melt onto my forehead and run down my temples without wiping them away. The whiteness illuminated everything– the pristine expanse of the lawn, and the hazy pixelated softening of the prairie–all through my squinted view. Also that one random guy chatting on his cell phone. WTF cell phone in a forest during a blizzard guy (thankfully, he moved along).
What I didn’t anticipate when crossing Kate’s imaginary forest threshold, were the joyful and poignant sense memories that flooded me. I grew up three blocks from this particular park, and this habitat has served as the setting for countless activities, festivities, and occasions over the course of my life.
The way my body moved in heavy snow clothes and boots reminded me of childhood sledding and snow play– the smell of wet wool, and the muffled sounds inside a hood (the zip of the hood tie quickening when Mom or Dad would tighten it for me). I smiled with my 5 year old cheeks–the ones that joined me in kindergarten at this very park’s school, now a rec building. I marveled at the storm-cloaked porch lights from the barely-visible homes dotting the northern edge of the park, like a scrim for A Christmas Carol stage set. I recalled my siblings and I using this path as a shortcut to the swimming pool in the summertime.
We passed the park shelter, a popular place for high school keg parties. Teenaged me once confessed a single sip of beer to a cop here, and I had to take a breathalyzer in the back of a squad car with a cute guy named Chris. Chris took no notice of me, except for when I got the all-clear, a lecture, and permission to leave. I got the feeling Chris never got the all-clear. More recently, our 20th high school reunion picnic took place here. By “recently,” I mean I recently got a save the date for our 30th.
Kate offered more invitations, bringing me back to the present moment; I leaned and stretched against tree trunks, smelled and tasted the falling snow, listened and observed the last dead leaf hangers-on rustling in the wind. My brain savored the obscenely beautiful display, outside and within; memories with my own tots (now teens) at the playground, recent summertime family walks, and even a snowshoe with my mom and stepdad the week prior.
We stopped at Kate’s favorite tree. She called it the mother tree of the park, and she asked us to notice what feelings it evoked. The tree stood old, wide, and strong for the other younger trees, even as large limbs have rotted and fallen away. My heart said “Leah,” my sweet steadfast friend who grew up across the street from this same park. Leah, like this tree, keeps a uniquely optimistic resilience, regardless of the heartache around her. She endures more than her share.
Kate’s last proposal involved selecting a tree to sit with for ten or fifteen minutes, while she made a campfire for us to finish the evening with socializing, hot cider, and bourbon.
A tree caught my attention for how it grew sideways and almost looked dead (as did the year 2020)–one with a sturdy long trunk that offered me support, during a time when I’d been supporting others. I laid on her trunk and thought about Shel Silverstein’s “The Giving Tree,” how Hoyt Park has given and given and given to me in similar fashion.
I went into the woods hoping for relief from myself and the collective blight of this year. I emerged smiling, bourbon-warmed (more than one sip this time, Officer), and reminded of the continuity of life. How quickly a year will pass, not to mention a childhood–mine and my children’s.
Mother trees stand strong even as they come apart. New trails await us. Happy New Year.