A Thousand Suns
In the wake of Long COVID, nature provided a healing light
Image credit: Caspar Rae, edits by Rachel Lense for The Science Writer
by Celeste Hankins
December 7, 2024
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Transcript of “A Thousand Suns” audio essay:
The glimmer appeared as I rounded the trail shadowed by old-growth cedars and firs. The damp light seeped through conifer branches ahead, puddling on patches of ferns and holly-leaved barberry. I stopped amid the drizzle, then gathered my fatigued fifty-something body and rushed toward the luster.
A year before, I moved to the woods to recover from long COVID. Daylight hurt my eyes, so the low gray clouds of western Washington felt safe, like curling up with a down blanket and a warm cup of tea. The moss and earth smelled sweet. I bought a pair of red rain boots for puddle-splashing in the forest and hoped the dim, soggy weather would replenish my brain.
Doctors weren’t sure how, but the coronavirus had mangled my neural pathways. It may have been inflammation or an autoimmune response or even micro-clots in my brain. Regardless of the reasoning, I struggled to process stimuli. The world seemed to pulse brighter and move faster. Crossing streets or walking through parking lots felt like an arcade game. My rehabilitation counselor suggested sunglasses and earplugs, but I felt drawn to the woods.
I read Dr. Qing Li’s book, Forest Bathing: How Trees Can Help You Find Health and Happiness. Li is chairman of the Japanese Society for Forest Medicine, which launched in 2004 to study the health benefits of spending time with trees. The practice of forest bathing — or mindfully taking in a forest atmosphere with all five senses — originated in Japan in the 1980s. Li began conducting research in 2004 to investigate its effect on human health. He found that walking in a woodland can reduce blood pressure, lower stress, and even boost the immune system. But Li isn’t the only one seeing health benefits from nature.
The study of how our landscape correlates to health outcomes has expanded substantially in the last decade. In 2017, a study published in Nature found that living near a forest may improve the function of one’s amygdala, the part of the brain that processes emotion and is linked to memory and learning. Other research suggests the fractal patterns of tree foliage increase alpha waves in the brain and induce a feeling of calm. A study published in 2018 found that 15 minutes of walking through a forest may be enough to lessen feelings of anxiety.
Inspired, I began taking daily walks in the woods near my home. During one of those early-morning explorations, I discovered the phantom light streaming through the trees ahead. I paused at the puddle of sunlit air. Dayshine flowed through feathered boughs and hanging moss. Tiny water droplets swirled and darted within the glow. As I observed, my heart rate began to slow. The light felt strangely curative.
Later, I learned this natural phenomenon had a Japanese name: komorebi. I called Hugo Torii, the garden curator at the Japanese garden in Portland, Oregon, and asked about the visual effect. The word komorebi, he explained, doesn’t have a direct translation to English. It comes from three kanji characters meaning “trees,” “stream,” and “sun.”
“When you read the kanji,” Torii explained, “it is very clear it means the sun is leaking between the trees.”
These leaks are part of an optical curiosity called the “pinhole effect.” As light streams through pinholes — the small gaps between branches and leaves in a wooded setting — it diffracts and projects soft, rounded images onto the forest floor. Each light blur is a miniature replica of the sun, upside down and flipped.
When I moved to the woods, I thought only of finding cover from brightness. I envied the black-tailed deer turning gray in winter to camouflage themselves like ghosts in ground fog. Yet, on the morning I discovered komorebi, the forest offered an unexpected gift.
I stepped into the shafts of light spilling through the old-growth trees. The beams splashed across a thicket of wild huckleberries. I stood knee-deep in the wet ferns and the diffracted dawn. I rested in the shimmer and allowed the woolen light, warm and soft as a lamb, to calm my post-COVID brain. For while I came to the forest to shelter in the shade, I found a thousand healing suns beneath its trees.
If you are experiencing audio issues, alternative players are available here:
Audio by Celeste Hankins.
Produced and edited by Rachel Lense.
Fact checking by Christopher Graber.
Select nature sounds from orangery (Pixabay CL) via Pixabay.
Celeste Hankins
Celeste Hankins is a freelance writer and nature guide living in the Pacific Northwest. Come rain or shine, you can find Celeste narrating scenic cruises on the local fjord, swimming with seals, or leading family beach walks. She has an MA in Science Writing from Johns Hopkins University and is a marine naturalist from the San Juan Whale Museum. She also volunteers at the Seattle Aquarium and as a citizen scientist monitoring sea birds and harbor porpoises. Her work has appeared in Salish Magazine, Lake Chelan Mirror, Hippocampus Magazine, The Wildlife Society, and on KOZI Radio.
