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.
