In the Name of Therapy
An exposé of sensuality in the forest, evolving from Basho’s somewhat mysterious waterfall haiku
For those who see the trees only through the writing, let me say early on that I am not able to use words to the same effect as leaves, the leaves that shelter, and make that beautiful shushing sound within a breeze. For my words are only words, and are not fed by the elements of sunlight or virginal rainfall, and are not coloured by the delicate petals of the fragile flowers offering elixir to bees.
In fact, I’m not sure I can say much in fact, as a walk through the forest involves the soul above all. So I will just mention the most important, and hope you, as reader, will know to fill-in the rest with your thoughts.
I specified the soul. You see, the forest treats the soul. The freshness of air, sight and scent that reaches you, composed of healing chemicals and improving circulation, lowering blood pressure and reducing cortesone levels also replenishes your inner light: the chemical benefits are measurable, the renewed connection between oneself and nature are personal.
It is said that walking barefoot in such an atmosphere may also be healthy, and is called earthing. Somehow, it seems fitting for a woman to walk barefoot in a forest, fully feeling the different textures, spongy, some slightly sharp and tickling, and wet, dry, cushioning, fine-grained or sturdy.
In Shinrin-Joku I discuss why forests are vital for our well-being through my own experience. However, sometimes it is just best to feel.
she walks barefoot
on soft pine needles
my forest nymph
And the forest is where lovers can learn secrets of each other, where the woman can lean back against a tree, palms against the trunk, as her man finds her chakra points with his smile, unbuttoning her shirt and kissing her neck, nibbling her ear, where he further unbuttons the blouse, and his lips slide softly between her breasts, lifting her bra with his fingers, and pulling each nipple into his mouth with the help of his tongue.
It is where she fully opens her top or lifts it off her shoulders, as he kisses her lovely belly, her navel, before standing and tugging at her belt while she caresses his bare shoulders and nuzzles his firm hairy chest. And then it is where he slides her jeans over her hips and down her legs, and lets his fingertips drift up her inner thighs, as she leans back with a sigh, her legs widening further open, as he kisses down from the waist, down to her beautiful flower for another, longer kiss, feeling the sprinkles of a shudder, before standing up, touching her forehead with his lips and taking her in his arms, her hand grabbing, and feeling a warm, growing and pulsating thickness, fertile and hard.
The forest is magical, mysterious and wild. It is the home of the hunter, and hunted, not the farmer or gardner, where freedom is a skill and the monsoon pours between the leaves and hurricanes uproot trees. But it is where beauty is natural, and the aroma of pine, birch, eucalyptus or sandalwood torments the loved and relaxes the lonely.
Close your eyes. Stand before me among the trees, and breathe in my words, but do not let them replace the leaves. Slip on loose clothing, and slip off your shoes and spend some dream time in the forest, on your own walkabout, and untame the parts of you too tame. The woods await you, for just an hour or two.
