I'm Major Jackson, and this is the Slowdown.

Recently I've come to this conclusion, I'd rather live in a dense forest than in a dense

city. Although my life has chiefly played itself out in small and big metro areas.

Grids of streetlights, hunking traffic, glass buildings, sports teams, museums, restaurants,

the whole noise and rush of living. Yet, after nearly two decades in Vermont and many

treks through woods across the country, I'm vibing on what science is just beginning to

tout, and tout loudly, trees hill. Which is why forest bathing, or shindrin yoku,

is finding its way as a wellness practice. Even sautering through a city park triggers nature's

rewards and alleviates the stress of our frenzy existence. Yet, there's another phenomenon

afoot. I believe nature revises us. As we stroll slowly beneath the earth's giants,

a misfunjai, moss, lichen, and ferns, we are being workshopped in dappled light.

What's restorative isn't merely the smells and sounds of woodlands, chirping birds and glimpses

of wildlife. We are forced to confront the illusions of modern life. We are a wash with a

simplicity that takes us to idols of clarity. That encourages introspection. We are reoriented

toward humans first encounter with beauty. It might be too that the trees and communicating amongst

themselves across distances connect us even more to earth's innate will toward life.

Today's mesmerizing poem reminds me to locate the sources of my creative self in nature,

and highlights its intensifying way of setting a new what matters in the human world.

A bountiful and generative love.

Forest bathing or trees by Francine J. Harris for JW.

Trees and other cities gather and send out information. The beach, the civatica, the Chinese

birch judging from the smell of diverted root. I get more done with you in these curated woods.

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