Alongside Cottonwood Creek

The other day, I partook in a Japanese Forest Bath. Yes, it’s a real thing. The idea is to meander through the woods, engaging all your senses to fully absorb the healing properties nestled between trees, earth, and sky. I needed to quiet all the disparate thoughts banging around in my head—the worries that come with great division, fires and floods, a global pandemic, and the inability to deal any of these sorrows an effective blow.

As I rambled from spot to spot, gently called to a specific location by a loving forest bathing guide, I did my share of tree hugging. I studied miniscule hairy spiders crawling in the sweet loam, berries huddled together as if they were chilled, stones worn smooth by time, and a canopy of leaves shimmering silver-green against the blue sky. I delighted in a breeze, gentle as a baby’s breath, as it skittered across my skin.

But it was the creek, Cottonwood Creek, that spoke to me.

I sat cross-legged beside the winking and spitting water, willing the chatter in my head to mute. Eyes closed, I mentally batted away concerns ranging from a loved one’s disease to what I should prepare for dinner. Lost in the sounds of water rushing over rocks, wind rustling the aspens, and bird call, I forgot where I was, maybe even who I was. I sat still, almost peaceful for some unknown amount of time, until two distinct, somewhat lilting voices interrupted my bliss. I opened my eyes to effectively glare at the intruders in my sacred space, but no one was there—not a human in sight, just Cottonwood Creek. I concentrated, listened harder, and sure enough, determined it was the water speaking.

No, I haven’t lost it. Myth, folklore, and even science have explanations for this phenomenon of hearing voices in moving water. It is not unique to me—you can google it. Of the many theories I explored, I’m partial to the notion of water sprites, elemental fairies that noticed a human in distress and wanted to help. And, yet, the more logical explanation is that, while bathing in the forest, I became part of the forest, of something greater than me, a higher power, nature, God.

About a week later, my heart heavy and my mind abuzz once again, I revisited the creek. I listened to the water as it gurgled, slipped, slid, moved forward. My eyes alighted on a lone, golden leaf appearing so fragile riding atop the turbulent waves. It went under; it popped up. It hit rocks and bounced back. And that’s when the voices returned, and I began to understand the language of the water.

Tears slipping down my cheeks, I was guided to feel all the hurt, all the fear, all the worry. To go with it and not to fight it. I surrendered to the raw sadness within me. It was akin to the despair that descends when a loved one dies, or when you can’t help someone you love who is hurting because they’re unable to accept your help, or when you just can’t control the environment around you. I was reminded of the Serenity Prayer: God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.

As that leaf made its way downstream, intact the entire way, magically, my glass became, once again, half full.

In gratitude to Cottonwood Creek.

You can learn more about Forest Bathing at https://www.natureandforesttherapy.org/ .