I've recently been very interested in the meditative practice of Shinrin-yoku, or forest bathing. I've been reading about it and yesterday I got to take a Forest Bathing class at the Fort Worth Botantical Garden. The term and practice come from Japan, but aren't as ancient as you might think. Although it builds on Shinto practices that date back hundreds of years, the specific practice and terminology came about in the 70s when Japanese people were have mental crises and deaths by suicides as a way to disconnect from the fast-paced, high-stress modern realities and return to nature.
Back in high school, I became interested in the idea of learning the Japanese language because of the potential business applications within the then-booming Japanese economy, and probably also because its unique and I liked doing things that were different than the normal expectations. When I got the chance to study in Hiroshima, the immersion was a profoundly transformative experience in my life. Not only did I learn to speak Japanese well, but I learned about the religion and culture, broke myself of some picky eater preferences, and made lasting connections and memories.
While I have no actual Japanese heritage to speak of, I feel like Japan has been a part of my life all along - starting with learning, at a young age, that my Mom had been born on a US Navy base in Japan, although she didn't remember it because they moved when she was 3. My Dad worked in the electronics industry for most of my upbringing and often had business trips to Japan, bringing back souvenirs of a culture that felt very foreign to both me and my Mom.
So there is literally no surprise that, while seeking to be outdoors more and manage my mental and emotional health, I've found an affinity to the Japanese-based art of Shinrin-yoku. Nevertheless, it seems to be a renewable source of deeply resonating terminology that surprises me in the affinity.
An Amateur Primer on Shinrin-Yoku (森林浴, or Forest Bathing)
The hardest parts of Shinrin-Yoku are also the most critical. First, approaching a forest bathing experience with no expectations of the experience or of nature is a big part of it. While you will most assuredly get something out of it, setting goals or expecting some specific outcome is something you are counseled to avoid. Second, allowing yourself the time and being okay with it being "unproductive" or "inefficient" is part of the point. This is a very hard mindset to overcome for an efficiency and productivity engineer like myself, but it is hard for everyone in a modern, driven, fast-paced society. Some cultures can unwind and enjoy food or wine better than others, but I think the absolute lack of anything to "do" to occupy ourselves is tough for most, regardless.
Shinrin-Yoku is not a hike or a form of physical exercise, and in fact, trying to couple it with exercise can also reduce the effect. Basically, the only requires are to be in nature, preferably in a thick forest with lush, green trees and a quiet place, but even those requirements can be waived or altered to practice wherever you may be able to get to. Other than that, the practice can be as simple as breathing, eliminating phone usage, and being in the moment. Finding a safe spot to sit, closing eyes helps to focus on scents and sounds. Some recommendations include touching, such as touching the bark of a tree or walking barefoot through grass or on dirt. There are a number of different things to imagine and meditate on, but that's the basics.
The Japanese word is made of three parts: shin (森), forest or dense woods, rin (林), woods or grove and yoku (浴), bath or immersing (as in taking a bath). It is different than taking a dip in the water, like onsen (温泉), despite being a "bath" of sorts.
My Early Experiences
Shinrin-yoku can be a lifelong practice with no mastery to be achieved, so I am writing this from the standpoint of having just recently started, and hopefully will be able to see how my practice changes in the future. But, no expectations, right?
One of the books I read suggested finding a quiet spot and doing prolonged, deep breathing exercises. One such exercise suggests, from a standing position, exhaling and folding over to push all the air out completely, before opening back up again and inhaling. Doing this while imagining that "bad air" or negative emotions are being expelled and forcing the purge of every "last drop" before breathing in the positivity of the forest is one way to make it meditative. I have practiced this a few times and usually enjoy pairing it with some light stretching while taking in deep breaths of the forest and imagining the phytoncides entering my body and boosting my immune system (there is real scientific evidence of this, but more on that later).
While the book "Rest" weigh heavily in my mindset, with the idea that good, fulfilling rest isn't idle, and can be very active and even rigorous, I've had to set that aside for my practices of Shinrin-yoku which are meant to not be active hikes. Sometimes I combine the activities, like last weekend when I hiked for a while until I found a pristine spot to sit for a while. Then I switched into Shinrin-yoku mode. Once I felt ready to move on, which probably wasn't long enough in hindsight, I continued my hike.
In the class yesterday, our instructor talked about how the Japanese garden is a good place to practice Shinrin-yoku because it is intentionally layered with different levels and slightly uneven terrain. This forces us to pay attention so we can't idle walk along a smooth path ruminating about our concerns and issues. (My words, but you get the gist.) It reminded me a lot of my experience at the labyrinth, in which I felt like the short switchbacks at the beginning were there to pull us out of our heads and focus on the task at hand, and as the lengths grew longer, it felt more meditative now that I was focused on the path.
Fukinsei
(不均整)
Beyond the walkways, the visual texture of the forest offers its own kind of therapy. Modern architecture and products have straight lines, symmetry and efficiency. Yet in nature, the most soothing scenes rely on fukinsei—the beauty of organic asymmetry and non-uniform repetition. The concept is that perfect symmetry feels closed and finished. Asymmetry feels alive and open to growth. It shows that true beauty comes from nature and irregular shapes instead of strict, matching sides. Looking up to a canopy of tree branches, our eyes naturally trace the fractal patterns formed by the leaves. Science shows that our nervous systems are hardwired to process these mid-range natural fractals, actively lowering our stress levels. It gives the analytical mind a place to rest without forcing it to shut down entirely. Last weekend, I spent some time in awe of the backlit leaves while laying in a hammock at the dome retreat. Yesterday, just laying on a bench, I had this same type of gorgeously simple view that made time fly by.
Komorebi (木漏れ日)
Long before I had words for it or starting learning about Shinrin-yoku, I've always enjoyed scenes in which sunlight streams canopies of trees and overlapping leaves. The Japanese term for this is komorebi, and it describes sunlight filtering through the leaves of trees, creating a shifting pattern of light and dancing shadows. The word combines three kanji characters: 木 (ko, tree), 漏れ (more, leaking or escaping), and 日 (bi, sun). I am often filled with a thrilling sense of awe when I see such a sight, and it has served as a major bonding moment when like-minded people share in my sheer joy at such a sight.
Yūgen (幽玄)
In
fact, I've had that sense of awe and joy when seeing the sun hit the clouds
from an airplane window, or seeing other just weirdly perfect natural scenes.
This is so much a part of my self-image that I tried to capture the words for
it in the name of my blog, "Easily Thrilled." I've since found better
words for it. In The Meaning of Your Life,
Arthur Brooks speaks of a similar concept—a "luminosity" that
radiates through certain experiences, defying easy explanation. In his model
for our we construct meaning in our lives, part of the model involves the
appreciation of the beauty of art and nature, and this indescribable beauty is
perhaps the best form of it. A similar Japanese term is yūgen, pronounced
yoo-gen. It means a deep, mysterious sense of the beauty of the universe—an
awareness that triggers an emotional response too powerful and profound for 
words. The Kanji combines yū (幽) which is dim, deep, or hidden, and gen (玄)
which is black, dark, or profound.
Yesterday after my class was over, I retrieved my phone (what a relief - haha), and I spotted the Great Blue Herron in the distance with a rushing waterfall behind it and beautiful trees in the foreground. The real-life image was like a magical portrait with so much depth and beauty, and I felt that sudden swell of awe. It’s a profound, almost mysterious sense of the beauty of the universe that words can't quite capture. While I took a few great photos, too, I never feel like the photos do the moment justice to the moment and the feeling, either. That's luminosity. That's yūgen.
Mono no Aware (物の哀れ)
This phrase is a core Japanese aesthetic concept pronounced moh-noh noh ah-wah-reh. It translates to "the pathos of things" or "the beautiful sadness of impermanence". I love it because when written in Romanji characters (the alphabet used by English readers), it reads like the English word "aware" and the prefix "mono-" which is singular. So it could be read in English almost like a singular awareness, or an awareness of this moment. In that way, it sort of makes sense in English and in Japanese. But the Japanese term is much deeper, I think. Aware (哀れ) was originally an exclamation of surprise or deep feeling and evolved to mean sadness, pathos, or moving sentiment. No (の) is just a possessive particle, similar to "of" in English. Mono (物) represents things, objects, or the universe. Put together, it is a beautiful sadness: It is not a bitter or depressing grief, but a gentle, bittersweet appreciation of reality. Cherry blossoms, or sakura (桜 / さくら), are the ultimate symbol of mono no aware. They bloom beautifully but fall in just a few days, reminding us that life is short and fragile.
My inability to capture photographs of the beauty and awe that I feel and see in these scenes is a reminder for me of mono no aware. While I still often try to capture pictures to remember the moment (and for blog and socials fodder), I have also been intentional at times to stop trying to capture the perfect image and just sit in the moment and enjoy. Incorporating it into my Shinrin-yoku practice is both a challenge and a valuable part of my experience.
Onsen (温泉) and Toji (湯治)
My favorite "lost in translation" story was from my study abroad experience, when my host mom told us we were going to the onsen, but she was trying to explain it in English for her language practice. She told me it was a "big bus" which, paired with my understanding of the Japanese word for "big," I took to mean a long bus ride. She told me there would be lots of people and it would be very hot, which all tracked. Then she told me some of my American friends and their host families would be joining us. When I noticed my friend Mat with his camcorder, I asked if he'd be filming in the onsen. He seemed surprised at my question, and asked in response, "You do know we'll be naked, right?" Not yet comprehending the error, I responded, "What kind of a BUS is this?!?" After that, we cleared it right up, and it all made sense. That was how my first onsen experience began.
The experience itself can only be described as liberating. Being a white woman with a large chest, I stood out and was an object of curiosity among the Japanese women. And Japanese do not have the same sense of privacy not to stare as we westerners do, I suppose. So being nude in front of all those strangers and having them stare, I could only sort of laugh to myself, "Take it all in, ladies!" Since then, nudity and modesty have not been an issue for me at doctors or massage appointments, etc.
Beyond the liberating experience, onsens are sought after for healing properties. Toji is the name of the concept for healing through hot springs. And whether they can cure ailments or not, the heat of course helps aching muscles and it is just generally relaxing to sit in a hot bath like that. When I returned to Japan for vacation, I had a room on the island of Miyajima with my own private onsen bath, and it felt like I was communing with nature while soaking. I think that may also tie to the concept of shinrin-yoku to an extent. Even though my hot tub at my house in California was a chlorinated hot tub, soaking outside in the early morning, stargazing and watching meteors, or as the sun rose, seeing the trees and birds and lizards, also felt a little like shinrin-yoku or toji or some happy combination of the two.
So I guess I've been partaking in shinrin-yoku practices and indulging in the beauty of komorebi and yūgen long before I had the vocabulary. And while I won't change the name of my blog to komorebi, that's really what I mean when I call myself "easily thrilled."
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