Shinrin-yoku
It began by accident. I was walking to a Portland Timbers match, looking for something light to pass the time at halftime. Fifteen minutes to read, that was the goal. I slipped into Powell’s on the way, scanning spines the way you might scan a grocery shelf when you’re hungry but not sure what for. I walked out with Walking in the Woods, the English version of a Japanese text about Shinrin-yoku — forest bathing.
At first, the book felt like a curiosity. A slim paperback on walking, on slowing down. But within a few pages, the idea of bathing in the forest stuck to me. Not hiking. Not exercising. Not even “getting fresh air.” Bathing — as in, letting something soak into you, not the other way around.
Over the following weeks I found myself lacing my shoes and heading out with no real agenda except to try this practice. I began to think of Portland not as a city I lived in, but as a constellation of green pockets waiting to be stepped into. Each park became its own lesson.
Powell Butte was the first. Wide meadows, views stretching out farther than I expected. The trails opened into the kind of horizon that makes you aware of your own size, which is to say: small. I didn’t cover much ground, but I didn’t need to. Standing still felt like participation.
Tualatin Hills Nature Park quickly became my favorite. A flat, accessible preserve in Beaverton, crisscrossed with boardwalks over wetlands and shaded forest paths. I went there often while Tara was at Burn Boot Camp. It felt like a parallel universe—while she pushed through sets and reps indoors, I drifted among birdsong and waterlogged roots. There was something reflective about the place, as if the landscape itself invited you to pause and notice. I rarely hurried there, and that slowness became part of the ritual.
Tryon Creek was a different kind of walk. My mother came with me, nursing a sore hip, her steps careful and deliberate. It wasn’t about distance. It was about sharing space with her, both of us moving slowly enough to really look at things—the moss, the dappled light, the shapes of the bridges crossing the creek. There was a tenderness in that walk, a reminder that time outside doesn’t have to be strenuous to be restorative.
Elk Rock Island felt like a secret. The trail cut through ferns and basalt outcroppings, and within minutes the city noise dropped away. It’s startling how quickly you can move from pavement to something wild if you know where to look. I thought about how many people live nearby and may never realize there’s an island waiting for them at the edge of their neighborhood.
Mount Tabor was the opposite of hidden. Every time I went, something was happening. Once I walked straight into a full-blown day rave — speakers thumping, people dancing on the grass in the middle of the afternoon. Another time, I watched cyclists streak downhill, wheels buzzing like a swarm of bees. It struck me that “nature” in a city is always entangled with human energy. Tabor wasn’t quiet, but it was alive.
Mount Talbert was quieter, humbler. Less dramatic views, but a kind of gentle stillness. Trails weaving through oak and fir, the sort of place where you realize half an hour has passed without you noticing. Not every park has to dazzle. Some simply remind you that there’s a different pace available, if you’re willing to adopt it.
Forest Park was a labyrinth. On one walk, Tara and I went farther than we intended, the trail folding back on itself until we eventually spilled out blocks away in the Northwest hills. The shift from dense forest to quiet residential streets was disorienting in the best way. It felt like stepping between two different Portlands: one built of trees, the other of old houses and stone walls.
The book itself gave me a kind of scaffolding for these experiences. It explained the science behind the practice. Time in the woods lowers cortisol. Blood pressure drops. Heart rate slows. Trees emit compounds—phytoncides—that we breathe in, changing our bodies at the chemical level. There are studies showing measurable boosts to immune function after a weekend spent outdoors.
But numbers weren’t what I carried home after these walks. What stayed with me was simpler: the feeling of being porous again. I wasn’t an isolated figure moving through scenery. I was a part of something larger, indistinguishable from it. My edges softened.
In daily life, I often forget that’s possible. I live in cycles of screens, projects, deadlines. I’ve built a life where the walls are thick. Sometimes I mistake those walls for identity. The forest reminded me that those boundaries are more permeable than I think. A forest doesn’t care about your schedule or your ambitions. It doesn’t ask you to be clever, or productive, or even interesting. It just continues, and if you give it your attention, it has a way of continuing through you.
That may be why the word bath fits better than walk. Walking sounds active, like something to accomplish. Bathing is receptive. You don’t “do” a bath. You let the water do something to you. These past weeks, the woods have done something to me. Not in a dramatic, life-altering way, but in a quieter one. A softening. A slowing. A reminder.
You don’t need wilderness to try it. You don’t need a national park or a backpack or hours set aside. Twenty minutes in a neighborhood park can be enough. Walk slowly. Leave your headphones. Touch the bark of a tree. Let yourself notice the smell of wet soil or the sound of leaves shifting. You’ll come back different, even if just slightly.
I set out looking for something to fill halftime. What I found was a way to let time expand again.
