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Category: landscape

Grounding

Grounding

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I had no sooner written about Japanese forest bathing than I read about “grounding,” which is … walking outside barefoot. Grounding, also known as “earthing,” is a way of touching base with the essentials. Those who favor it say that it might help prevent chronic diseases, and research shows that it can improve sleep and lower stress.

Sounds touchy-feely (in more ways than one!) … and yet, consider this: One theory that explains the positive effect of grounding is that earth’s negative charge neutralizes the free radicals that can damage our cells. Antioxidants not from fruits and vegetables but from the earth itself.

And then there is the circadian rhythm aspect of grounding, the fact that touching ground can help regulate our autonomic nervous system, our breathing out and our breathing in.

The article in the Washington Post explaining this research ended with suggestions: Walk barefoot on ground or sand (something I’ll be doing in a few minutes, as a matter of fact!). Garden in the earth, or even lean against a tree trunk.

We are only beginning to understand how connected we are to the natural world around us.

Forest Bathing

Forest Bathing

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Shinrin yoku — Japanese for forest bathing — is the practice of immersing one’s self in a forest or other natural environment to relieve stress. Practitioners walk slowly through the woods, marveling at the shades of green.They aren’t there to bike down a hill or hike up a mountain. The journey is their destination. It is enough simply to be outside, to inhale the scent of pine.

I like the imagery involved, the idea that one can slide into a forest as if into a tub of warm water.  That its beauty will surround and calm and lift up.

A walk in the suburbs is not always a bath in the forest. It’s too fast, too purposeful. Often, there are no forests involved.

But even the briefest and most cursory stroll works its magic. I leave the house with fists clenched, brow furrowed. I return renewed and refreshed, reminded that we are not just creatures of rooms and screens. That after all, we are born of earth and will return to it, that every visit there is going home.

View from the Spot

View from the Spot

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Today was my parent’s wedding anniversary, so I’m thinking about them and about my visit to the cemetery last weekend when I was in Lexington.

I’m lucky that it’s only been recently that I factor in a trip to the cemetery when I visit home. But factor it in I do. On the last trip I thought about what a lovely view is available from their final resting place. It’s an open sunny expanse, with cows grazing in a grassy field a stone’s throw away.  One could argue that the view from a plot doesn’t matter to those who inhabit it, but it does to those who visit.

Because it’s a military cemetery, there are strict restrictions on what kinds of flowers and ornaments you can lay on the graves. I settled for a small American flag, in honor of Dad’s service and the upcoming Memorial Day. Next time, I’ll bring flowers for Mom.

Plalking?

Plalking?

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Yesterday I read about a new trend that started in Sweden. It’s called plogging, which comes from “jogging” combined with “plocka-uppa” (Swedish for pick up). The idea is simple. You take a trash bag along on a run and collect the odd plastic bottles and cigarette butts you encounter. Disposable gloves are recommended.

Translate this to walking and you have “plalking” — or do you?

I care about the environment and have even been known to pick up a bit of errant trash. But I can’t see turning my fast walks into scavenger sessions. It’s about the rhythm, you see.

The cadence of the stroll is a large part of its magic. Take that away and you have … beach combing.

Supermoon

Supermoon

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The supermoon woke me at 3:37 a.m., poured its rays into
the room, feigning daylight. No wonder my stay-asleep mechanism was
overwhelmed. Nothing to do with the fact that this is my first day back in the office since December 21. 
I read a while, ignored the moonbeams and drifted back. All the while this meteorological marvel, what astronomers call the perigee syzygy, was beaming down on the frigid landscape. It was lighting up the salt crystals on the road and the little patches of snow still left from last week’s dusting.
By the time I left for work, it was low in the sky, just above the treetops, and I quickly snapped the shot above.  (Quickly, because it was 7 degrees outside and I was anxious to put my gloves on.)
We’re closer to the moon during a perigee syzygy than we are otherwise. And tomorrow is the perihelion, the point in earth’s orbit when we’re closest to the sun. Thanks to these heavenly bodies for lighting our way, and for making the dark, cold hours so much more bearable. 
This supermoon is from November 14, 2016. I saw it glinting on the Java Sea from the island of Sumba, Indonesia. Photo:  Wikipedia
Crushed Shells

Crushed Shells

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Just out on the deck for a moment this unseasonably warm morning, I find that some of the shells I’d laid out on a glass-top table have been scattered and crushed. This is not the end of the world — I should have put them away months ago. But they looked so pretty on the table, a natural collage, that I left them there way too long.

As I gathered them again to slip into a cup, I marveled at their tiny whorls and notches, at the beauty of their architecture, which is born of practicality. And I couldn’t help but think of their collector, a young girl who was trying to earn a few coins from us on the beach in Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh. She had a shy pride about her, and an eagerness. Once she knew we were willing to pay for shells she took off for almost half an hour, combing through the tide pools looking for the loveliest specimens.

Now I’m thinking of her face when she opened her hands and showed us her collection. Some of the shells may be gone, but that memory has not faded at all.

Seeing Stars

Seeing Stars

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It was warmer this morning than the last few days, high 40s. Reason to pull on tights, sweatshirt and reflective vest, grab the flashlight and take a pre-dawn walk.

The crescent moon was out, the one that lets you see a faint image of the rest of the orb, like an eyeball pulsing beneath an almost-closed lid.

But that’s not what caught my attention. It was the stars.

I noticed them on the return, when I felt comfortable enough in the dark to look up. And there they were, so far away, so bright, so essential. I took a mental snapshot, have them with me now in the fluorescent-lit office, where I’ve found a quiet, unlit corner to write these words, to try and see stars again.

(Photo: Wikipedia)

Backward Glance

Backward Glance

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A couple days ago on a walk around the block, I came across the end of a beach volleyball game in Crystal City. Couldn’t resist snapping a photo of the sand. To heck with the game, it’s the sand I love, the sand I crave. So, on this last day of summer … a backward glance at this summer’s beaches.

I had my Florida beach fix in August, days of sun and surf with tropical breezes and breathtaking sunsets.

And then, I took in a bonus beach in Bangladesh. Cox’s Bazar is the longest natural beach in the world., and we managed to find a spare hour to visit it despite our crammed-full schedule.

I’m thinking of it now, the width and the breadth of it, the people and animals we met: a young girl selling shells, a labor trafficking victim who’d gotten a new start in life as a photographer, a merchant hawking pearls, a yellow dog.

It was a different kind of beach experience, no towels or chairs, no umbrellas, no skimpy suits. It was a rock-strewn beach with dark, hard-packed sand. But it was glorious just the same.

Ascending Descenders

Ascending Descenders

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The late musicologist Karl Haas, who I still remember fondly from his radio show “Adventures in Good Music,” once had a program about “ascending descenders” or something of the sort. He may not have used that term, but his point was to celebrate the impact wrought from notes that descend in pitch but elevate in intensity.

I see the same process at work in the foliage of south Florida. Yes, palm fronds arch up and over in graceful arcs. Though their new growth shoots ever heavenward, they have an earthbound quality, too. Same with the long stringy stems (botanists would know what to call these things) that are perhaps the beginnings of a new branch.

In thinking about the foliage and the music I see a common theme: a celebration of life as it is, the ups, the downs, the beginnings and the ends. Recognizing the nobility in all of it.

Beach Walkers

Beach Walkers

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Beach walkers are purposeful creatures, and when you hit the strand early, as I did today, you see them in droves: arms pumping, shoulders squared, feet clad in tennis shoes or serious sandals. I fit right in.

For the beach walker, the ocean is a backdrop, the sand a soft cushion for our plantar-fasciitis-prone heels. No shell will tempt us from our mission, which is to make it from the old jetty to the first (blue) lifeguard chair before being overcome by tropical heat and humidity.

But even the most driven of beach walkers can’t ignore gulf waters lapping, shore birds peeping, the glorious mixture that is life where land meets sea.