smell: the forgotten sense

I wonder if you also played with this thought experiment in about grade three: if you had to live without one of the five primary senses, which would it be? As kids, it was easy (and hilarious) for us to associate any sniffing around with all of the stinky things, and then, with a giggle, to deem smell quite dispensable. Until recently, my perspective on smell seemed to have matured into something only a shade more sophisticated. I may not be alone in this. As Jonas Olofsson writes in his 2025 book by the same title, in the Western World, smell is the “forgotten sense”.

As a Shinrin Yoku Guide, I have gained a new appreciation for the sense of smell and its importance as a vital conduit between the landscape around us and the one within. Right under our noses, the invisible aromas of our world are silently helping to shape what we eat, the strength of our social bonds, who we love, what we fear, what we remember, and our very sense of self. Olfactory impairment and loss is linked with low mood, compromised cognition, and an associated decrease in quality of life. While the rate of smell loss increases rapidly with age, loss of smell might also arise as a result of viral infections (COVID-19 awakened many of us to the misery of anosmia, if mercifully temporarily), and in some cases, may be an early indicator of neurodegenerative conditions. Structured olfactory training sometimes can help those with a compromised sense of smell regain some scent sensitivity.

In the wellness-supporting practice of Shinrin Yoku, many of Nature’s therapeutic effects reach participants through the portals of their senses. I have marvelled at how this practice supports participants in re-membering the forgotten sense of smell, and as a Guide, I take every opportunity to facilitate this connection by curating invitations for participants to actively engage their noses (as well as other senses) in novel ways. Participants may find that these invitations help to awaken their senses, and perhaps help them attune to the sensory stimuli of the forest in ever finer and deeper ways.

Scent invitations can bring dramatic, pure present-moment comfort or delight to those who choose to whole-heartedly engage. I’m smiling now to remember how on one walk Christopher (not his real name) buried his face in the forest floor for the sheer love of smelling it, and did not want to rise from that rapture, prone on the Earth for a long, long time.

In a typical Shinrin Yoku session, participants are invited to immerse in the sights, sounds, textures, tastes, and smells of the forest, allowing Nature to engage each of the five primary senses through, perhaps, the rustling of leaves, the earthy scent of moss, raindrops, cool breezes, or the dappled sunlight filtered through the trees. Techniques of Shinrin Yoku also create a calming atmosphere that promotes relaxation and mindfulness. Practices of slow nasal breathing facilitate the intake of fresh air which (depending on conditions) may be high in phytoncides that are rejuvenative to both mind and body. Among the sensory experiences of forest bathing, those pertaining to the sense of smell may have the potential to be particularly and quickly transformative, given the olfactory bulb’s proximity to the limbic system.

Forest bathing supports the maintenance of olfactory acuity and nasal health in general. Clean, humid forest air reduces mucosal irritation from pollutants and provides continuous low-level stimulation to olfactory receptors. The plant-based VOC’s we inhale when we walk in through the forest have therapeutic effect including reduction in stress hormones and supporting immune function, improved respiratory health and reduced inflammatory markers that may indirectly support the health of nasal passages. These things may help to preserve olfactory function including smell detection thresholds, and the ability to identify and discriminate between odours.

I believe that it is a direct result of the Shinrin Yoku guiding, and personal practice, that I am more alive in each of my five senses, perhaps most notably in my sense of smell. The forgotten sense has made itself delightfully known to me again, like a magician that holds me in the here and now even as she transports me to other times and places.

These days, I sniff around a lot—and not just the flowers. Wherever I may be, I’m often caught leaning in, inhaling deeply. I can tell by the funny looks I get that pausing to smell (and to take such unabashed delight in doing so) seems strange to many, but so be it. There is great joy for me in this awakened sense. Something so fun and feral about tracking scent! Concentrating on smells centres me as it makes me feel so playfully creaturely, moving me closer to my undomesticated depths, and sparking new appreciation for poetic Odes to Smells, like this one:

Ode to the Smell of Firewood by Pablo Neruda

Late, when the stars open in the cold,

I opened the door.

The sea was galloping in the night.

Like a hand from the dark house arose the intense perfume of firewood.

A visible scent as if the tree were alive.

As if it still pulsed.

Visible like a robe.

Visible like a broken branch.

Overwhelmed by balsamic darkness, I went inside the house.

Outside the points of heaven were glimmering like magnetic stones, and the smell of firewood touched my heart like fingers, like jasmine, like memories.

It was not the sharp smell of pines, it was not the cracked skin of eucalyptus, nor was it the green perfume of vineyards, but something more secret, because that fragrance exists once only, once only—

And there, of all that lived in the world, in my own house, by night, near the winter sea, there it was waiting for me— the smell of the deepest rose,

the heart cut from the earth—

and something entered me like a wave unloosed from time

and I was lost in my self when I opened the door to the night.

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