Being in Community

I’m a rugged, individual American. Every American is.  (This probably holds true for whatever country you belong to.)

Or at least we think we’re expected to be this. And that’s a problem as our cities become larger and we have to drive to the grocery store rather than walk. We don’t sit on our front porches anymore and talk to people walking by because the houses in new housing developments don’t have porches, or sidewalks, or grocery stores.

We’ve lost our sense of belonging to a community of people. When we do gather together, it tends to be for national celebrations like July 4^th or for sporting events. The crowd is large and anonymous, and we don’t share on the personal level. We talk to the people we came with, and that’s about it.

The Spirit Land

Sometimes we hear the voice of a family member who has died, or we feel their presence. Is it real?

Out of the blue, I think to send something nice to a friend in another state. When it arrives three days later, it’s exactly what she needs. Is something more going on than coincidence?

We are more connected to each other than we think, both the living and the dead.

Soon after I arrive in Yosemite, a coyote always appears, either sitting along the road to welcome me in, or trotting across the meadow with a glance. Molly says Coyote is my spirit guide. She might be right. Some people say they never see coyotes. I see them all the time.

As I hike, I feel the companionship of Nature’s spirit, and let it guide me where it wants. The wind comes near and advises me about tomorrow’s weather. Taking a break, I fall asleep along the river, feeling I have come home.

We are not limited by what we can see.

The Seasons Within Me

I used to think that, for the most part, summer progressed smoothly into autumn, and autumn into winter, each day taking the next step on the way. Then I began to pay attention. Each season often has a pause, as though the earth is having second thoughts and is reluctant to let go of what has been.

A few days of unseasonably warm weather in autumn is often called Indian Summer, and yet it doesn’t feel like summer or autumn, but something that is all its own.

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Thunderstorm in the Mountains

from an October a few years ago

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As I come out of Tenaya Canyon in Yosemite after a hike, the skies darken and it begins to sprinkle.  Then thunder crackles and bangs through the sky. The wind increases and blows branches and camp chairs across the Upper Pine campground. I love rolling thunder, especially the type that I can feel rumbling deep in my chest. Hurrying back to camp, I grab my rain gear and head for the meadows so that I can see what the storm is doing to the surrounding mountains. 

A white cloud is forming just below the lip of Upper Yosemite Fall. It's the only cloud this low. The color of the water in the fall matches the white of the cloud so it looks like the fall is pouring into the cloud like a basin, and it seems that more water is pouring into the cloud than is coming out.

I wonder if the atmospheric conditions are such that the fall is creating the cloud? Maybe the cool air flowing down the Yosemite Creek canyon behind the fall is mixing with the humid, warmer air rising from the valley floor and forming a cloud at the junction. Lightning flashes and unhitches the cloud from the fall to float up the valley.

Hiking in the Rain

Today is a day of rest for my body. The physical exertions of yesterday's dawn-to-dusk hike wore me out. Generally the day after any hike longer than 10 hours is a rest day, or a day of a few short hikes, time to let the body recoup and stretch its muscles. 

So far I detect no serious tightness in my legs or hot spots on my feet. Although my mind wants to go on another long hike and see more mountain scenery, today’s sporadic rain dilutes my drive and encourages me to saunter around slowly and observe the details of nature more closely. 

This is also a good time to catch up on housekeeping chores in the tent, as I tend to dump things in when I return late from one hike, reset my backpack for the next day’s activity, and take off at daybreak.

Brother Sun, Sister Moon

The feast day of Francis of Assisi is October 4. In this harvest season, as I drive through the countryside past golden fields of corn, I think of Francis and his great love for nature.

I see him running through the fields of his scenic Umbrian countryside, robe flapping around him as he shouts his words of praise — lyrics about glorious flowers, singing birds, and the glowing fields of wheat. In what would come to be known as his Canticle of Creation, Francis praises the beauty and presence of the natural world and all its creatures, and gives thanks for his companions, brother Sun and sister Moon.




Sweetness of Living

Native life in the barren Arctic is a constant battle to survive. To the Inuits who live there, the brutal struggle to stay alive is balanced by the sweetness of living. A long life is never assumed, not even an additional year. There was gratefulness for what each day provided. For them, it was not enough to survive if they did not also find something to celebrate.

My great grandparents felt the same way, I think. Life was hard when they moved to Wisconsin in the late 1800s and created a farm in the prairie wilderness. Yet the physical life and the fresh food they grew helped them live long lives.

The Wilderness is Home

(The top of Yosemite Creek as it goes over the falls.)

This is where it began. In the snow. My journey in Yosemite began in the snow one winter. And I could not believe that such a place could exist.

I grew up in the woods, on the rolling hills and lakes of Wisconsin, reading the words of John Muir, Aldo Leopold, and Sigurd Olson. When I moved to the Bay Area in California, and the urban landscape of endless buildings and highways, I lost touch with the outdoors. 

Yosemite Tree Notes

This week, forest fires are burning in Yosemite and threatening groves of giant sequoias.

In the late 1800s Sir Joseph Hooker said he had never seen a coniferous forest that rivaled the Sierra's because of the grandeur of its individual trees and the number of its species. 

The Ahwahnechee and their ancestors lived in Yosemite Valley for hundreds of years. Acorns from black oaks made up 60 percent of their food.

The prime growing area for the ponderosa pine is in the Sierra.

Until Every Land

(photo of a statue of Saint Francis)

“Until Every Land is Covered by Tranquility,” my short essay on a peace demonstration, was published this week at Mindful Matter. (You can read it at: http://hlst.ee/1N0wx1L)

That it was a protest against nuclear weapons in Berkeley, California is not unusual. That it was peaceful is affirming. That it was led by seminarians and faculty from nine Protestant and Catholic seminaries is notable because too often religion is silent on matters of ethics when society is for the status quo.

The demonstration took place in 1980, which is halfway between the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945 and where we sit today. This year, on the 70^th anniversary, there was another protest. This means that politicians and the military still like their big, bad toys, like easy answers instead of lasting ones, that our work continues, and that we still don’t trust them to tell us the truth.

What touched my heart about our protest in 1980 was the presence of Japanese nuns of the Buddhist Lotus Sutra sect. One of their traditions is to beat on drums softly at protests as a way of sharing the peace in their hearts with others.