Billy liked to forest bathe.
He would find a local forest (he knew all of them without having to look up directions), pack up his lunch and a flask of tea in an old-fashioned tartan thermos, and spend the day on his back- staring at leaves.
He’d heard about it years back, from his father – who had a habit of sharing anecdotes about other cultures no one asked for: “In Japan, they don’t just sunbathe, they forest bathe, Billy.”
Whether this was factual was irrelevant, it had lit something up inside of Billy – reminded him of his childhood. The idea of staring at trees but on the ground, watching the trunks slightly sway and the leaves flutter and blue-sky peer through the canopy – all of it had sounded right.
Today, however, there would be no leaves. It was minus one degree and Billy had to de-ice his windscreen and blast hot air through the car before he could even leave.
It was nearly Christmas; a grey bone-cold day and Billy had decided on forest bathing.
He arrived at the local forest commission. He could see his breath and thanked his late wife for the thick jumper he was wearing. He took the usual path – the main forest stretched on and undulated with beeches. They were elegant skeletons, architectural sculptures posing in the deep dark woods.
Billy managed to get himself on the ground, with some difficulty thanks to his age and love of biscuits, and stared straight up.
Beautiful. Just beautiful he thought.
The spindly twigs were so delicate. How foolish, thought Billy, are the folks rushing around buying presents and organising food and making last-minute calls. They could be here; in the mysterious, cold and beautiful winter woods. Looking up.
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