“We are animal in our blood and in our skin. We were not born for pavements and escalators, but for thunder and mud.” — Jay Griffiths, Wild: An Elemental Journey
Perhaps you’ve heard: Loving on nature is good for us. A little biophilia goes a long way toward making us feel better.
In 2017 The Nature Fix, by Florence Williams, landed on bookshelves. In it Williams explores a host of efforts to study the biophilia hypothesis, which posits that throughout human evolution “peaceful or nurturing elements of nature [have] helped us regain equanimity, cognitive clarity, empathy and hope” (page 22).
Williams structures her exploration on the layers of positive effect that nature has on how well our bodies function when near to nature. Just five minutes of exposure to nature, whether looking out a window or standing in a park, can serve to drop our blood pressure and wash us in a sense of calm (part 2). Several hours immersed among trees and the sounds of birds and the sight of moving water provides rest for our fatigued brains and can even strengthen our bodies’ immune responses (part 3). And several days in the backcountry, removed from screens and the constant barrage of consumer driven society, can be enough to give us a full cognitive overhaul, rendering us more calm, creative, and kind (part 4).
Makes sense. We are, after all, animal in our brains, in our blood and in our skin.
In 2012 Amos Clifford founded the Association of Nature and Forest Therapy. If you’ve heard about forest therapy or forest bathing, Clifford probably gets some of that credit. His outfit has helped to popularize a guided approach to forest therapy, based on the Japanese practice of shinrin-yoku, which is essentially a multi-sensory immersion in a forest environment for the sake wellness.
Good, simple, structured, slow, immersive, communal encounters with the lovely stuff that lingers in the resins of trees, the mycelial cocktails of soil, the presence of wild kin, and the noted absence of digital pings.
In 2005 Richard Louv coined the phrase “nature-deficit disorder” with his book The Last Child in the Woods, where he pointed at the harms that come with too many digital pings that keep us (and our kids) from getting not-enough-immersion among the elements.
In 1990—among those blissful days before we carried digital pings in our pockets—my dad picked me up one afternoon from Skiles Test Elementary School and drove me to Turkey Run State Park where we hiked on trail #3 and climbed a forest hillside littered with oak leaves.
I had never struggled as much, in my 7 years of life, to get from one place to another, as I did on that hillside. The slope was steep, the ground soft and slick, the gravity heavy. I applied myself with Sisyphean dedication. I sunk my fingers into the soil, clawing as I climbed toward my dad’s hand stretched out at the top. I’d get close, and hit a loose patch of leaves, and slide in the mud back to the bottom. And then, with glee, claw my way back up again.
I didn’t know that I was stirring up and ingesting all kinds of phytoncides, giving my immune system a boost. I wasn’t tracking my blood pressure, my brain function, my levels of equanimity or cognitive clarity.
But I knew—in my little animal self—that I was right where I belonged, rolling around on the forest floor.
There are books you can read. There are training programs you can take. There are skills to acquire, explanations to glean, guides to seek, inspiration to find. Which is all grand. To whatever extent the science and testimonials and experiences of others motivates you to go find your own regular rhythms of biophilic renewal, beautiful.
But at some point—maybe even at this very point—stop reading what I’m writing, and for God’s sake don’t Google another goddamn thing about the benefits of nature, and go ahead and carry the elemental fibers of your blessed animal body through whatever threshold stands between you and something wild. Go love on nature a little.
