Dear Laretta, The truly wild is shrinking in the Anthropocene.

So Shinrin-yoku to you too!

Previous letter to Laretta here

As I was about to argue that our lovely South of France wasn’t really characteristic of temperate climate, my lovely South of France fought back. It started snowing. We are technically in the South, yes. Yet, we are also suffering from a Northern continental drafts at times. As if the cold weather from the inside of the land struggled to extend a finger to touch our spot as well, barely reaching us. It snowed for an hour, large flakes clumping together, the type that a child feels the urge to taste.

Your idea of buying a remote piece of land without its own water supply might have been considered “risqué”. I agree with you all the same, the place is to fall in love with. And your patience bore fruit, though not in the sense that you expected it. You though that grazing the market for so many months would give you the advantage of finding the hidden gem. Instead, it gave you the time to appreciate what was right in front of you. For you had seen the place long before the idea of buying a place in the valley even came to mind. The neighboring village guy had taken you there already. No water though, you probably argued. Indeed, no water.

And so many other tiny elements to sprinkle doubt. The extravagant undertakings of the previous owner, all gone to bits, glorious ruins of an imaginary past. The strange layout of the septic system. And, for me, the pee jar of the guardian when we visited first. But that’s just me.

You must admit it’s pretty daring to move to a place so far off the main road. Or any road for that matter. But you are and always have been a hermit and I admire that about you.

The cabin is oriented towards the East, with the afternoons shaded, so you said you want to build a large greenhouse stuck to the sunniest side of the house to get the most out it. Would you get a glimpse of that magnificent view if you extend this greenhouse towards the western cliff?

Or maybe toward the bamboo grove. Oh! The bamboo grove! This way you could get the rustling sound of the bamboo leaves in the evening wind. How lovely!

There is a special connection we humans have with the sounds of nature. Living in the woods, you know better than me the noises night animals make, the soft murmur of the breeze, the crackly sound of the frozen forest floor in the morning. Modern people forget how soothing it can be. We’ve become afraid of forests. A while ago a visiting friend heard barking in the thicket just below the upper field. She gasped, stopped in her tracks, listened. There was a silence. Long dark evening silence. What is that? Her face was mousy all of a sudden, like a small animal in freeze mode, just before they bolt. What’s more, she couldn’t believe it could be a deer. Male deer, in mating season, make the weirdest sounds don’t they?

The Japanese have not lost this healing relationship with the forest. And being so good at words, they even have a name for it: “Shinrin-yoku”, which roughly translates as Forest bathing. They go out for walks in nature and take in it’s strength and balance. You’ll argue that the French go hiking as well. True. And both Japanese and French have such human-altered landscapes it is harder an harder to really immerse yourself in nature anymore. The truly wild is shrinking in the Anthropocene.

The bamboo grove on the other hand, is a much more domestic type of nature than the screeching hawk or the dead branch falling in the distance. It’s an in-between zone in our relationship with nature. The garden becomes a symbol of our taming of nature, it’s surrender to us. We control our garden, pulling and weeding and shaping this way and that. Adding new plants and taking out others. As is nature itself didn’t do it well the first time, we repair it’s mistakes. How silly of us!

So Shinrin-yoku to you and a Happy New Year!

Yours sincerely,

Jo