Category: Nature

I took off my shoes when I set out on the trail trail this morning. My transient thoughts were easily replaced by the simple pleasures of wet earth beneath my feet, changing seasons in the air, and glimpses of butterflies. While the river on the horizon and vast field in front of me suggested a far-away place, the hum of the freeway and the horn of a passing train reminded me that I was just outside of town. I was just stopping by for a quick walk between two obligations.

Rounding the bend that turned me back towards the parking lot, I found myself staring at a heron. He was standing just a few yards off the path in a muddy patch of the field. He was not hunting; there wasn’t any water nearby and his gaze was loose, not fixed.  He was just standing, the way herons do — strong, silent, still. Motionless, he beckoned me to join him.

Grateful for the invitation, I knew I would stay as long as he would have my company.

I reached for my phone, hoping to capture our shared time, thinking I could save the experience to appreciate again another day or share with someone else. I took a video of his graceful and sturdy presence until my phone ran out of storage space. When it did, I put my phone away quickly, knowing it could not possibly capture this moment and a little embarrassed that I had held my little screen between us.

With relief, I gave myself fully to the heron, to my standing, and to our shared stillness. Meeting his quiet presence with my body, mind and heart, we stood in stillness together until we were no longer two creatures standing in a field. We were, clearly, one with each other and with the field. We stood, in this oneness, for several minutes (or maybe it was several hours).

Finally, the heron turned to walk away. He took a few deliberate and patient long-legged steps toward the river before pausing again for just a slight moment longer. Maybe he moved because the sun was in his eyes or maybe it was lunchtime … or maybe he had heron business to attend to elsewhere. Whatever the reason, his movement brought me back to my human body, standing in a moist field on a mid-September morning. I needed to be moving along also. After all, I figured I had human business to attend to. The day had promised to include dozens of the concerns, questions, and conversations that a human life carries in this time and place. I had not planned for it to include long moments (or was it hours?) with a heron.

As I turned to continue along the path, a pale purple butterfly flew off my left foot. Apparently, she had joined our meditation too. Her delicate levity offered perfect balance to the heron’s gravity.

Walking away, I was grateful for the invitation to pause and join the heron in stillness so fully that the mirage of our separateness dissolved completely for a moment. I was grateful for the presence of creatures who remind me that we are one. And I was grateful that these moments, though always with me and within me, come to find me when I need them most.

As I stepped off the trail and into my next commitment, I held gently to the heron’s stillness, the butterfly’s levity, the wet earth at my feet, and the gentle breeze. May I carry their clarity and presence into my work and relationships. May I invite others into that peace that connects us all. May the embrace of stillness forever delight.

Early this week, I was watching blossoms unfurl on the plum tree. I checked the tight green buds eagerly each day, anticipating the grand display of flowers to come. Slowly, they began to open. But instead of a grand display, it has been a slow unveiling. Each blossom is an individual with a timeframe of its own, a potential that will unfold at the right time, no sooner or later.

I notice how, like the blossoms, I am unfolding very slowly to this season, only risking exposure in bits. Perhaps the plum tree’s rhythm protects the harvest from early frost that could damage the earliest bloomers. I wonder what my slow caution is protecting me from? After quietly nurturing projects and inspirations through the winter, spring would be the right time for them to explode onto the scene with color and vibrancy. The symbolism is inviting, but the reality is much more complicated. Opening too much heart or imagination too quickly feels risky. There is so much potential in front of me and each opportunity promises (or threatens) to open more doors. How much can I take on and how far out can I step?

This is not really a question I need to answer intellectually. My body offers all of the answers. At times it offers energy and inspiration; that’s when I work and play. At other times, I am completely depleted, unable to act against the lethargy in my body or mind; that is when I slow down, take stock and sleep longer. Paying attention to these natural inclinations to work, play and rest, I can see that my cycle of opening into this new season is disciplined and steady, like that of the plum tree. That observation and kinship sparks new patience for my pace. It kindles a compassionate reminder to let go of my waiting and urgency and to simply pay attention to what is real and present in each moment, both within and around me.

Today, the plum tree is in full bloom. Each individual blossom has opened and their collective beauty is jaw-dropping. Dozens of bees are collecting and sharing pollen from flower to flower, branch to branch, and tree to tree. There will be fruit this year — and it will come in due time.

 Standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon, it was easy to feel small. As my 15 year-old son remarked, “This is awesome — in the true sense of the word.” Millions of years of history stretched out below and in front of us. The blue sky unfolded above in a pure streak of blue, interrupted only occasionally by a wistful cloud or darting bird. Standing at the canyon’s edge, my 45 years of life seemed barely perceptible amidst the backdrop of geologic time. The scale was hard to reconcile as I attempted to appreciate and honor both the canyon’s immensity and my diminutiveness.

After glimpsing the Colorado River at the bottom of the canyon, I began to regain balance — and my relevance. The river, visible as a blue-green serpentine gem, carved this grand canyon as it traveled through rock that had formed over the last 2 billion years. To view it from a distance, the river is a placid and serene bit of water slowly and persistently rubbing against the edges of the canyon walls. Even the rapids, though frothy and white, look calm from miles away. Over time, the earth along the river’s path weakened and collapsed, periodically calving like a glacier to create the canyon walls that we see today. The majesty of the Grand Canyon exists because of the consistent pressure of flowing life that slowly carved a path through the ancient rock layers. Here, perched at the rim of the canyon, I am another speck of lifeforce in that long history. Not insignificant, but simply another bit of dust and ray of light amidst the other manifestations of mineral, plant and animal in this amazing place.

When we descended the canyon, I re-oriented myself in time and space once again. The trail that we descended hugged the canyon wall down long, steep switchbacks. On the way down, I was kept busy struggling to keep my balance in the gusty wind and trying to take in this new perspective of the steep canyon walls. On the way back up the trail, I had a chance to appreciate its construction. The trail is a masterpiece of engineering, built by engineers, miners, and CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) crews in the 1920s and 1930s. The trail was sturdy, well-defined and comfortable both descending and ascending. I have built trails with rock before, tasked with balancing protection of the natural resource with protection of human hikers in Kenai Fjords National Park and Tongass National Forest. Building with rock is both satisfying and endlessly deceiving. It hints at permanence but is no less malleable and fallible than any other element at our disposal. It is very hard to get it right and, even well placed, rocks will dislodge, break, wiggle and erode when water, temperature and gravity exert their influence. In this case, the trail was still in great condition and it welcomed us to terrain that would have otherwise been inaccessible without wings or sticky lizard pads on our hands and feet.

Knowing how much hard work had gone into making the route down the canyon accessible to humans, I reflected again on the forces that have been at work in the corner of the earth that we call the Grand Canyon. Undoubtedly, the crew was glad to have the paid employment in the midst of a recession, but they must have also felt that their work was futile at times. As they dangled on belay in the hot sun and hammered at unrelenting rock, I imagine they wondered who would ever come to walk their trail. I wonder if they ever paused to notice that, with their slow and patient work, they were leaving their mark on the walls of history. Their marks are now carved into the canyon as clearly as those of the water, wind and plants. If the trail crews were still here, I would offer my hearty thanks for their labor. They made it possible for me (and thousands of other people) to literally hike a mile towards the center of the earth one morning last week.

And they helped me recognize that, while I am small against the backdrop of the canyon, I am not insignificant. None of us are. We all have a role to play in the process of carving the path for human evolution. Our work matters. Like the river flowing towards the ocean, it is inevitable that we will move towards peace. As we do, we will be advocates for the earth and for humanity. We will persistently pursue compassion and justice. When we falter, we can look to Colorado River, the Grand Canyon and the CCC as evidence that it does matter. It all matters. Keep rubbing against the stubborn canyon walls. Speak out against injustice. Grow vegetables. Volunteer. Offer a kind word or a smile. It all matters. We may be small, but we are not insignificant. We have a vital place within the unfolding history of humanity and our beloved planet earth.