The Outpouring

I stopped writing. Or, rather, years ago I gave in to the analytic part of my brain that liked numbers and problem solving, chased other things in life such as spirituality and school, and stopped trying to capture and recompose the things I found beautiful in the world with my own limited words. On one level, I think I realized nothing I can ever say will do justice to the experiences that awaken me deep down in my core, although I can’t help but still give feeble attempts to do so with the occasional extended post on social media. Lately, said posts have been accompanied by a picture of something in nature, or occasionally an inanimate object that symbolizes for me something profound that I’ve discovered in myself or through relationships. But could I ever convey to someone with language what is conveyed to me through actual magic? The magic in the air that literally stops me in my tracks on a snow-laden path in the beginning of winter, staring in awe at the fresh dusting on the pine trees, the vastness of the canyon walls, the sharp contrast of the dark greens against the royal, magnificent white, all the while enveloped by the thickest layer of silence that makes me want to stop breathing altogether in order not to disturb the captivating place I’m in?

I am small and I am an intruder in those moments, and it is a privilege that mine get to be the only footsteps on the path, and that I may share the same breath as the birds chirping sweetly above, who belong in this citadel of trees. I do not belong, for I dwell away from the mountain, in a funny human-made thing called a ‘city’ that is constructed with plastic. Cities offer occasional glimpses of beauty to be caught here and there, if you’re lucky, if you’re looking, but they are mostly hollow. If you’re not paying attention you won’t even notice you’re trapped in one, because the walls are made of mirrors that point inward and keep you from desiring the true source of life. So I am a city dweller, but proudly waking up to the reality of it; and that I am allowed to sometimes spend time outside of the hollow structure, in the natural world where the sun’s rays are an intimate friend with a personality instead of merely a source of light to be used for our own purposes, brings me to my knees in gratitude.

After all, who are we to claim this earth as our own, forging paths and processes with our evolutionary expertise, ‘perfecting’ the world as we like to think of it? We build machines to do everything for us and thus become bored by the lack of beauty, seeking entertainment everywhere within the mirrored, plastic structure in which we are stuck. We even grow accustomed to our own unhappiness, finding ourselves unsatiated by the small tastes we do get of the vision that is the natural earth. “It doesn’t do much for me,” some say after a brief walk on a dirt trail, and for those people I feel a sort of sadness. The forests, rivers, meadows, rocks, and canyons have much to teach us, but we must humble ourselves to be willing to learn from them. Only then will our capacity to experience the beauty grow.

I had stopped writing – or, rather, took a long pause - for a couple of reasons, some simplistic and straightforward, others much more complex. But I have seen too much wonder in the recent years of my life to let the appreciation continue to go unspoken for fear of an inability to reconstruct the magic. I’ve been utterly captivated by the raw world and the things I’m learning from it, resulting in this outpouring of feelings and thoughts that I can't control. For that reason, I look forward to every next encounter I get to have with the sun, moon, stars, earth, and ocean, and every meaningful moment inbetween. To all the upcoming evenings gazing up at the sky from whatever perch I am called to in the moment, be it the hilltop at my neighborhood park or a mountain peak that I labored up for hours just to say goodnight to the sun - I'm ready.

Peace. Where can it be Found?

I come to the mountains because it's the only place I know to look for healing anymore.

Friday night I took to a trail I had wandered up once before, a year ago - half because I had two hours to kill and knew I needed exercise, and half because my soul was in deep need of some relief from a terrible storm it has been weathering. This second reason wasn't entirely a conscious thought when my feet hit the ground. I just knew I was tired emotionally and I didn't know what else to do, so I tried to focus on the calming sound of the running water of the creek that follows the trail. I attempted to let it center me, fill me, and wash over me, with the hope that it would at least provide a temporary break from the storm.

I never experience anywhere else the warm welcome that I receive when I find myself in a canopy of trees with no one else around. They enclose me in the silence, blocking out the bright light of the day that would otherwise remind me of how much energy I don't have. The mild darkness allows me to be broken and tired. Some people think if you like to be outdoors a lot it's because you're a tree hugger, but maybe it's because we are in desperate need of the hugs the trees give us. The trail I was on greeted me in this way, giving me the utmost sense of freedom and safety.

As I was moving my way up the trail, I made just the slightest effort to more consciously take in my surroundings, and I soon began to be overwhelmed by evidence of physical brokenness at every turn and bend in the path. This place that was once was an invitation to life, adventure, and exploration had been beaten down, with snapped tree branches and trunks lying haphazardly across the ground and in the water. Everywhere I went there was some form of destruction. I have never noticed this anywhere else hiking, and it struck me.

The brokenness of the mountains mirrored and magnified my own. Nature itself was crying out in pain, reminding me of my own pain from the constant battles I've been going through with new and returning opponents all the time. Anxiety, lies, false hope, broken relationships, anger, emptiness, restlessness, pessimism, self doubt, self loathing, and more broken relationships. Overwhelmed by the hurt and confusion that I was sharing with the mountain, my heart cried, "Peace! Please! Where can it be found? We are all in desperate need." I grew weary. Storms have caused this path to become broken like me. The earth everywhere is probably being barraged by enemies all the time, the damage going unseen by us who can only see the surface.

I didn't know what to do with these feelings but to keep moving forward. I had already used up all my tears this week, so luckily I only crumbled a little. I did not break down entirely, as I have done before. For a moment I did have to stop and force myself to inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, when my chest tightened up and air flow restricted. Keep breathing, I told myself. And then, one foot in front of the other. Panic attack avoided. Crisis averted. The hike continued.

The hurt subsided as the trail forced me to think about other things. It kept diverting to fake paths, and multiple times I would cross the stream only to find out I could not get anywhere on that side and I had to turn back. I had to use my brain to figure out where I needed to go, calculating my options and alternatives. I was also very keenly aware of the changing conditions of the path, noticing that at times the trail kept very close to the water, and at other times the two were quite distanced, and the noise of the stream was much more dulled. There were times the path broke out into the sun again, and then it would return to the canopy of trees. All of these things provided mental relief, as they were distractions from the hurt, and they also started to speak as metaphors into my life. Mother Nature was being kind to me, giving me words of wisdom, such as, "Some voices and ideas in your life will be louder at times than others." She did not speak about what to do with those voices, as I am always trying to figure out, but she helped me see them as a simple fact of life.

Further up the trail I reached the point where clusters of tiny, blue berries could be seen dangling off branches amidst the foliage. For some reason I decided to hold a cluster in my hand, to see what it felt like. I was reminded of my therapist's advice about being mindful - using all my senses to observe my surroundings and be present. The approach seemed to resonate with me at the time, given my already spiritual connection I was having on the hike. The berries were heavy, but fragile. Very small. Delicate. They easily fell off the stem. They were dry and had a matte finish but were not dull or monotone in color. Perhaps the most impactful observation was that they were growing/living among already dying leaves. The surrounding area was full of dry, crackled vegetation, as it is late in the summer and they had been scorched by the long season of unrelenting heat. There she was again, Mother Nature relating to me in our brokenness. How hard it is to be so fragile, heavy, and trying to survive in a desert.

At some point I had to turn around and head back to my car. I was fortunate enough to remember to look up when I came back across a large boulder jutting up straight out of the ground. On the way up I hadn't thought to look at it closely, but this time I saw that it was climbable. I quickly scrambled up the incline and was given the privilege of viewing the mountainside that I couldn't see before, in the beautiful light of the setting evening sun. Multiple different views blew me away with their colors, arrangements, textures. Naturally, I hung out in my optimal viewing spot for as long as I could before I needed to actually be heading home, for obligations I had made and because it would get dark soon. Normally this is how my hikes end - me wishing I could stay forever in this place, and feeling remorseful to have to leave. But because time can't stop and I wasn't prepared to spend the night, down the rock I went.

I wish everything about this short hike had made sense, but not everything about it can be wrapped up nicely into a perfect package. I just know that I had an interesting dialogue with Mother Nature, where I was at least able to sit in my hurt safely, protected by the mountain. I was also able to move on from the pain, though, as the trail kept going and I was forced to make decisions. I still don't have any answers on how to process the things causing the current pain and confusion in my life, but I did come away with some strangely shared experiences, and the reminder that while the storm weathers us and brings damage, the trail is not always marked by pain, and the destruction never causing total defeat.