Wilderness Prayer

Mindfulness is camping in the wilderness, rising at dawn, and listening to nature wake up around you as you cook breakfast over a fire.

Prayer is a conversation we have with the mountains and rivers, with ravens and coyotes. We share our thoughts and feelings, and as we listen to the Other, our perceptions about ourselves and the world change and deepen. As we watch the lives of nature, we grow in compassion for all creatures.

Send Them Outside to Play

If you have no relationship with nature,

you have no relationship with humanity.

-- Krishnamurti

The landscape of one’s home is always sacramental.

 It molds our character. It’s the soil out of which we grow.

 It’s where we either encounter the divine

or we never make the connection.

-- Seamus Heaney

If we have a relationship with nature, we do better in relationships with people because we realize that the health of our community depends on the health of our environment. We realize there are bigger truths in the world than our own personal truths. Nature also has a way of humbling us, and reminding us that we’re not in control outdoors. In nature we become aware of a greater power.

In the Darkness

In the darkness before dawn, in the quiet of the hours before people rise out of their beds, before the sound of traffic on the street picks up, even before the sunlight rises over the hill to wake the birds to come to the feeder, there is a delicious silence. 

In the fullness of this silence, I open myself to the universe, to whatever it wants to share with me today. In the darkness before dawn, I believe that all things are possible.

Nature as Revelation

John Burroughs wanted people to go outside and enjoy the nature that existed around them wherever they were, whether this was forest, farmland, ocean, desert, or a city park. He was concerned that people were staying indoors too much. He wrote this in the late 1800s. I think he’d be more concerned today.

Listening to the Woods

In Illinois in midwinter, the trees are bare and brown. The sky is generally gray, and on most days there isn’t enough sun to satisfy my cat. Without leaves in the way, I can see a mile over to the next hill where there are more brown trees. Brown doesn’t interest me much. I prefer green.

The woods are quiet as I walk down the hill into the Forest Park Preserve, follow the creek around the bend where the water has carved a channel into the land, and find a place to sit. Today there is sun, and I lean back against a tree and wait.

One Percent Changes Everything

It makes a difference. The one percent.

You’ve seen the commercials. One person does something nice for someone else, like picking up a package she dropped or holding the door open. Someone else sees this and does something nice for another person down the street, and so on. A chain-reaction of helping others. But this is more than a feel-good moment.

An experiment with the particle accelerator in Batavia, Illinois found there was a one percent difference between the number of muons and antimuons that arise from the decay of particles known as B mesons. This one percent more of matter particles than antimatter particles is the reason we don’t explode into smithereens. You see, matter and antimatter do not get along.

Staring Into the Woods

Why do I stare into the woods?

There’s not much going on. The woodchuck is hibernating. The deer haven’t come through in quite a while. The birds are foraging elsewhere. And don’t get me started on the owl that’s been on vacation for six months. Everyday it looks the same. Basically black trees sticking out of a foot of white snow that has buried the bushes and rounded the land so that everything’s smooth.

And yet I stare at the white landscape, mesmerized by the intricate patterns of dark branches and trunks, watching two squirrels chase each other over the snow.

I also like to walk in a cathedral when it’s deserted on late afternoons. Nothing is going on there, either. No rituals, no music, few people. Yet I do because I feel a presence as I sit in on the hard wooden pew in the darkness of that cavernous space. Red votives flicker up front. Stained glass windows glow in the shadows deepening to darkness on the side.

Winter Canticle

Primordial turn of Earth.

Snow.

Solitude with stone.

Light rises,

            travels below the south ridge.

Cold lingers

            on the shadow side of the valley.

Fleeting moments of warmth midday.

I clap hands to awaken my ears

            to this season’s voice.

This aliveness.

This.

Wandering Home

(One day in January a few years ago, I spent an afternoon in the Mariposa Grove of giant sequoias in Yosemite.)

Leaving my car at the entrance, I walk slowly through deep snow and let the silence of the sequoia grove wrap around me, moving from one giant tree to the next, placing my hand on the red bark of one hoping to detect its pulse. I feel endurance in the thick red bark.

Beneath my feet I sense its roots connected to the roots of the other trees and feel the strength of community. In its stretched-out branches I see its praise of creation. And in its canopy I know that an ecosystem of life exists, above the visible life that I can see from the forest floor.

I feel insignificant here, and imagine how dwarfed I’d look in a photograph standing next to it. These 3000-year-old elders of the mountains hold centuries of memories in their branches, and in the quietness of the afternoon, I listen to their wisdom.

Beneath trees that John Muir loved, I pick up three dark-green cones and hold them in one hand. It amazes me that cones from trees 300 feet tall and 30 feet around should be so small and their seeds so tiny. Freshly cut down by Douglass squirrels, the cones tightly bind their seeds inside, seeds that hold giant trees waiting to begin their lives. The cones will not open without the intense heat of a forest fire, a fire which also burns away the undergrowth and prepares the soil for the seeds to grow.

100-Year Flood

Eighteen years ago this month, in 1997, Yosemite Valley experienced a 100-year flood. Warm rain melted the snowpack in the high country and all that water flowed into the valley. The damage was so great to the roads and infrastructure that the valley was closed for several months. When minimal facilities were restored and I could get in, I hiked the seven-mile length of the valley, going from the east end by Half Dome to the west, surveying the damage and hoping that the places I loved have survived.

The photo above is at Happy Isles, with trees knocked down and branches piled up on the far bank of the river.

            *

In Tenaya Canyon, the bridge crossing Tenaya Creek above old Mirror Lake is gone, washed away like many of the other footbridges in this area. I reach the other side by stepping across boulders in the stream. The trail that went along the riverbank disappeared with the riverbank. The tranquil spot by the river that had a reflection of Half Dome overhead is gone.

In many places the water is red-orange, which indicates the presence of iron. There is an actual "Iron Spring" below the lower pool of Mirror Lake that colors the water there, but this coloring is new since the flood and starts just below where Snow Creek joins in. The pine trees in the middle section of Tenaya's landscape are dying, whether this is due to the change in the river's route, damage from the flood, the new presence of iron in the water, an infestation of insects made possible by the environmental changes, or all of the above.

Change one element in nature and the effect ripples throughout the ecosystem.