Bridget Rohde
1 min readApr 22, 2021

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Forest Bathing

To forest bathe, shinrin-yoku, I ride my bike to the old cemetery, locking it up with my helmet by the gatehouse. I begin walking, following the streets named after trees, Linden to Sycamore to White Oak. I go off-road to paths chosen by the degree of shade they provide. I find my way to the deepest canopy of leaves. I slow my pace, concentrating on placing one foot after the other. I press my right heel into the ground, roll onto the ball of my foot then my toes. I repeat this with my left foot. Then again with my right foot. And my left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right. Left. On and on. I see the sun peek through the trees. I hear leaves rustle in the wind. I smell damp earth beneath my feet. I feel the sun, the wind, the earth. My teacher is nature, and she reminds me to be grounded.

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Bridget Rohde

Writes fiction and poetry (“Soundtrack,” The Loch Raven Review; “The Water Goddess,”Epiphany Magazine; “The Cache Pot” and “Tulips,” Bodega Magazine“