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There is nothing you can see that is not a flower; there is nothing you can think
that is not the moon.
—BASHO
When I pictured shinrin yoku, “forest bathing,” I conjured Sleeping
Beauty in her corpse phase, surrounded by primordial trees, twittering
birds and shafts of sunlight. You just knew she was somehow taking it
all in, and she’d awake refreshed, enlightened and ready for her hot
prince. But this was wrong on so many levels. First off, Japan doesn’t
have a lot of primeval forest left, and second, you have to work at
this, although corpselike moments are not discouraged. In Chichibu-
Tama-Kai National Park, a ninety-minute train ride from Tokyo, I
was supposed to be concentrating on the cicadas and the sound of a
flowing creek when a loud Mitsubishi van rumbled by. It was
disgorging more campers to a nearby tent village where kids were
running around with their fishing poles and pink bed pillows. This
was nature, Japan-style.
The dozen others with me on our shinrin yoku hike didn’t seem to
mind the distractions. The Japanese go crazy for this practice, which
is standard preventive medicine here. It involves cultivating your
senses to open them to the woods. It’s not about wilderness; it’s about
the nature/civilization hybrid the Japanese have cultivated for
thousands of years. You can stroll a little, write a haiku, crack open a
spicebush twig and inhale its woodsy, sassy scent. The whole notion
is predicated on an ancient bond that can be unearthed with a few
sensory tricks.
“People come out from the city and literally shower in the
greenery,” our guide, Kunio, explained to me. “This way, they are
able to become relaxed.” To help us along, Kunio—a volunteer ranger
—had us standing still on a hillside, facing the creek, with our arms at
our sides. I glanced around. We looked like earthlings transfixed by
the light of the mother ship. Weathered and jolly, Kunio told us to
breathe in for a count of seven seconds, hold for five, release.
“Concentrate on your belly,” he said.
We needed this. Most of us were urban desk jockeys. We looked
like weak, shelled soybeans, tired and pale. Standing next to me was
Ito Tatsuya, a forty-one-year-old Tokyo businessman. Like many day-
hikers in this country, he carried an inordinate amount of gear, much
of it dangling from his belt: a cell phone, a camera, a water bottle and
a set of keys. The Japanese would make great boy scouts, which is
probably why they make such great office workers, working longer
hours than anyone else in the developed world. It’s gotten to the point
where they’ve coined a term, karoshi—death from overwork. The
phenomenon was identified during the 1980s bubble economy when
workers in their prime started dropping dead, and the concept
reverberated into the future and throughout the developed world:
civilization can kill us. Ito and I breathed in the pines and then dove
into our bento boxes full of octopus and pickled root vegetables.
Kunio was moving around, showing people the astonishingly twiggy
walking-stick insect. Ito’s shoulders seemed to be unclenching by the
minute.
“When I’m out here, I don’t think about things,” he said, deftly
scooping up shards of radish while I splattered mine onto the leaf
litter.
“What’s the Japanese word for ‘stress’?” I asked.
“‘Stress,’” he said.
THE NEXT MORNING, the college boys and I took turns sitting in the
mobile lab at the trailhead. We placed hard cotton cylinders under our
tongues for two minutes, then spit them out into test tubes. That
would record our levels of cortisol, a hormone made in the adrenal
cortex. We got hooked up to probes and devices. The team was
inaugurating a brain-measuring, battery-powered, near-infrared
spectrometer that, when deployed, gave me a sensation of leeches
sticking to my forehead. We’d repeat all these measurements at the
end of the walk and again in the cityscape.
To gauge our physiological responses to these environments,
Miyazaki and Lee look at changes in blood pressure, pulse rate,
variable heart rate, salivary cortisol and, new this year, hemoglobin in
the brain’s prefrontal cortex. When aggregated, these metrics paint a
picture of our bifurcated nervous system. When we are relaxed and at
ease in our environment, our parasympathetic system—sometimes
called the “rest and digest” branch—kicks in. This is why food tastes
better in the outdoors, explains Miyazaki. But the demands and
constant stimuli of modern life tend to trigger our sympathetic
nervous system, which governs fight-or-flight behaviors. And trigger
it, and trigger it. We suffer the consequences: a long trail of research
dating back to the 1930s shows people who produce chronically high
cortisol levels and high blood pressure are more prone to heart
disease, metabolic disease, dementia and depression. More recent
research shows that the steady stress of urban living changes the brain
in ways that can increase our odds of schizophrenia, anxiety and
mood disorders.
When it was my turn to wander through the forest for fifteen
minutes, I was happy to break free from the wires. The loud pulse of
cicadas echoed through the woods. Light filtered gently through the
beeches and Japanese horse chestnuts and the earth smelled like good
damp dirt. An elderly couple ambled by, assisted by walking sticks
and a bear bell. I was briefly mesmerized by a yellow butterfly. I
could see why Juniko, a leafy network of trails and lakes, is a
candidate for the country’s next forest therapy station. Local and park
officials are seeking the designation because where there’s forest
therapy, there are tourists and their yen. Miyazaki may have a
mystical side, but what drives him is more data. It’s a convenient
arrangement.
The Japanese work on physiology and the brain takes advantage of
new tools of brain science, but it builds on decades of psych-talk
about the health benefits of being in nature. Miyazaki wasn’t the first
to record physical stress recovery in nature. A young psychologist
named Roger Ulrich was curious why so many Michigan drivers
chose to go out of their way to take a tree-lined roadway to the mall.
In 1986, using the expensive and cumbersome equipment of the time,
he hooked up an electroencephalograph (EEG) unit to the heads of
healthy volunteers while they viewed slides of nature scenes or
utilitarian urban buildings. The subjects assigned to nature showed
higher alpha wave activity, a wavelength associated with relaxation,
meditation and increased serotonin. In another experiment, he
stressed out 120 students by showing them movies of bloody
accidents in a woodworking shop. He knew they were distressed
because he measured their sympathetic nervous activity—the sweat
glands on their skin, their heart rates and their blood pressure.
Afterward, some students were assigned to watch a ten-minute video
of nature scenes and some to watch videos of urban scenes, from a
pedestrian mall to cars on a road. The results were dramatic: within
five minutes, the brains-on-nature returned to baseline. The brains-
on-built-environment recovered only partway—as indicated by those
nervous system measures— even more than ten minutes later.
Despite early promise, the study of brains-on-nature went fairly
dark for a couple of decades. It was considered soft science, much of
it based on qualitative measures in a medical world dazzled by
genetics and modern chemistry and funded by pharmaceutical
companies that didn’t stand to make a profit from houseplants or
garden views. The renewed interest of late represents a convergence
of ideas and events: the relentless march of obesity, depression and
anxiety (even in affluent communities and despite more medication),
the growing recognition of the role of the environment on genes, and
the growing academic and cultural unease with our widening breach
from the outdoors.