in aspen, colorado, it is one of our favorite trails…alongside the ridgeline, through the aspen forest, ducking under fragrant pine, climbing. the vistas are stunning, the scent is rejuvenating, the air fresh and cool.
this time there was snow on the trail. the combination of the warm sun and the snow beneath our feet was exquisite. new trekking poles in hand, we were in our glory.
if you don’t take the bridge over the more swollen section of the stream and climb higher, than you can take a divergent path and step rock to rock upstream to an old log that lays there just waiting for people to sit on it. we have sat on that very log every single time we have hiked this trail.
there is something magical about that spot. right in the middle of the stream, mountains behind us, dappled sun on our faces. it is as if every single thing becomes clear. we sit in that very space and all the life-whirling stops, the dots connect, the primary is primary. love.
we dropped our hands into the cold mountain stream, water running swiftly over them and on to the rocks below us.
we talked. we were silent. we touched cold fingertips to cold fingertips.
and somehow, the universe knew and the snow began to fall.
and everything became quiet and peaceful. all forward movement ceased. we sat in the pause.
this fermata was certainly needed. we had been feverishly working, working. emotions were high and our energy was almost depleted. but then the snow came.
though spring had made an appearance and our garden – peeking out – was circumspect about the snowfall, we welcomed its hush. every flake that fell received thanks from us. and it kept falling.
our fermata in the snow granted us a bit of rest, a bit of perspective. we took deep breaths and moved slowly through our day. we gazed out the window and watched as the snow covered all – everything – in a blanket of white. it erased all the writing on the page. it shushed the noise in our busy heads. it lent ease to our weary minds and hearts. it took the astonishing – disheartening – events of the week and buried them under inches of snow. it cleared the ugly like the swoosh of lifting cellophane on a magic slate.
and when the swirl slowed a bit and i stood on the deck – giant flakes gently falling – gazing out at the pristine world surrounding us, i realized that was pretty much all that mattered. we had been granted time. time to consider and rejuvenate, time to reflect, time to clean off the shields we held so tightly – the ones that protected us. time to grasp onto snowflakes – quickly melting – and realize – once again – that life is just too short.
there is no limit to how long you can stare at rushing water. cool mist enveloped us as we stood there, watching. in the land of 250 waterfalls, we, as even babbling-stream appreciators, stood and took in this gorgeous sight.
it is unusual for us to be in the midst of many people these days, even outside. yet, here we were, transfixed by the looking glass falls, along with at least thirty other carsful. everyone, with different accents and languages, exchanged greetings on the way up or down the rock steps. everyone was smiling. everyone was kind. the waterfall brought us all together before we parted and looked for the unbeaten path, the trail in the woods, the less-trod, less-populated places that would be quiet. in those moments of togetherness, though, the sheer force of the water spilling over granite seemed to be a cleansing balm to anything that would keep us all separate.
we stood still on looking glass rock trail the next day, just listening to the stream below us. a hiker jaunted by us, intent on making tracks. he turned around and asked us if there was something worthwhile to look at. that, in itself, was a funny question, considering the absolute beauty of the place we were standing. i responded that we weren’t looking, “we’re listening.” he nodded and said something about serenity, then pushed on.
if there were a place i could choose to stand as this year turns into next, i think i would pick one of the 250 waterfalls, or, for that matter, the stream. a reminder that all things keep moving. that everything is fluid. that the edges are smoothed by the water that runs over and over and over them. that dropping worries and angsts and all negativity into the moving, rushing fall or even the whitewater river or gurgling brook, will allow that very water to carry it all away.
“it’s time to let it all go,” he said as we were visiting together. he’s right.
as this year turns its head toward the sun of a new year, i drop it all into the water and start again. we are merely riverstones in this fluid looking-glass-filled life.
quiet. we walk in quiet most of the time. even our longer hikes are quiet. it is a time of rest for us, rest from the noise of the rest of life, the noise of worry and angst, the noise of dispute, the noise of too much bad news, the noise of chaos. we listen to the birds and our footfalls on the trail. we listen to the wind and the sound of creatures rustling in the underbrush. the quiet calms us; the quiet lifts the cellophane from the magic slate cardboard, it shakes the etch-a-sketch and takes it all back to zero, back to start, back to a rainwashed driveway waiting to be chalked all over again.
having run out of everest, k2 and annapurna footage we are watching appalachian trail and pacific crest trail and john muir trail videos these days. on our own treks locally we decide which one of these to take, listing the specific merits of each. make no mistake, these are serious treks. the AT is 2190 miles from georgia to maine. the PCT is 2653 miles from the border of mexico to the border of canada. the JMT, joining with the PCT some of the way, is 211 miles through the sierras, high elevation pass after pass. clearly, the training needed would be intense. but, as we envision this extended trekking, we are drawn to the quiet. the noise of this world has become raucous and the woods and the mountains seem to beckon with absolution, with grace, with rejuvenation.
there used to be a button on the cassette player that you could push that would quicken the pace of the tape to the end: fast forward. it would seem these trails, this quiet, like sleep, would fast forward through the dark and bring you to the light once again. these trails – this quiet – remind you that next comes.
and so, the noise of the day will cease. and you can listen to the sound of your footfall on a new day, ready to be chalked.
it’s a mystery. grace. it falls on us like morning dew, each and every day. we rise, buoyant or troubled, joyous or grieving, in clarity or murky, in the light or in the dark.
and it is a new day. beauty surrounds us. even breathing. there’s nothing we must do to receive it. we are granted grace…unconditionally. its simple and steadfast generosity – its rain – our gift.
we step into next, knowing we have yet another chance.
in the 1972 choral piece IT IS GOOD by Jack Normain Kimmell and Adrian Swets, there are these lyrics: “…and the Lord saw the work of His hand and said, “it is good.”
this painting morsel – and the painting WEEPING MAN in its entirety – make me think of this piece of music. the universe. this earth. this country. this community. this family. this life of yours. this life of mine.
regardless of what you believe about how THIS all came to be, regardless of your view of THIS – in an historic way or a spiritual way or even regarding the contemporary state of affairs, THIS all exists. for each of us. it isn’t always good. it isn’t always not-good.
there are those moments. the moments you weep openly, the moments you cover your face to cry, the moments of overwhelm, the moments of absolute weariness that, despite all evidence to the contrary in your tired mind and body, actually do lead to Next. times you feel alone, times of sorting, times of grief, times of fragile vulnerability, times of regret. the times you put your face in your hands and weep…
and there are those moments. the moments you weep openly, the moments you cover your face to cry, the moments of stunning awe, the moments of sheer exhaustion at your goal-line, moments that actually do lead to Next. times you feel enamored of life itself, times of incredulity, times of unquestionable good fortune, times of serendipity, times of simple all-consuming sweet love. the times you put your face in your hands and weep…
AND SO HE WEEPS – we recognize it. we can feel it. and we know that in another moment he -or she, for there is no pronoun-hogging here- will slowly raise his head out of his hands and Next will have arrived.
reverse threading 