I sat staring, staring, staring - half lost, learning a new language or rather the same language in a different dialect. So still were the big woods where I sat, sound might not yet have been born. Emily Carr (1871-1945)
the art of
Forest Bathing Stella Wenstob | story
And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul. John Muir (1838-1914) FJORD
So many shades of green and goldy-brown, you would need more than a box of crayons or a poet’s vocabulary. Sunlight breaks through the thick canopy, illuminating pale green lichen that has bearded a tall branching spruce tree. The dense carpet of hemlock needles deaden the sound of my feet, leaving only the song of the odd flitting thrush to fill my ears. Searching the branches for the bird, I stumble, catching myself against the giant spruce’s scaly bark and come away with a hand sticky with citrus smelling pitch. Low growing huckleberries punctuate the natural colors with vibrant red berries. I pop one in my mouth and am instantly assaulted by the sharp tangy flavour. 24
