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Posts from the ‘Gratitude’ Category

Dragon’s Tooth: “Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other’s eyes for an instant?” HDT

 

The eagle’s aerie, a rock nest created by eons of wind and water, a bathing bowl for large birds, provided the perfect perch for meditating on the cragged mountaintop, Dragon’s Tooth.  This quartzite molar was not the actual tooth, which I could see from where I sat, but the aerie was flat enough, and spacious enough, to hold a human comfortably seated in a lotus position; thus, here I comfortably sat instead of balancing precariously on the jagged eye tooth of the dragon.  I planned to stay awhile

The view from the aerie looks out over the Appalachian Mountains, blue-green ridges running like long trains north to south or south to north, depending on your perspective

So much of life is about perspective, our singular vantage point from which we view the universe, dependent upon so many variables, person by person.  My perspective, the high wide-angle view felt definitely loftier, more hallowed, literally more insightful.  Good reasons for climbing, for spending three days and nights alone atop the tooth (and jaw) of the Dragon.  Me with my newly formed drum…seeking connections between earth’s offerings and its limitations, while exploring my limitless thoughts, in search of insight and a wider perspective: the whole reason I had climbed this mountain in mid-May.

On my way up, I passed several streams, healthy waters trickling, gathering, running down the valley cleft. The trail along Catawba Creek soon ascended higher, meandering away from the stream to follow a pine needle, leaf-littered path under a canopy of deciduous trees mingled with a community of conifers. 

Where the climb grew steeper, the mountain’s gently sloping hem gave way to crinkles of her ruffled skirt more steeply inclined. Because of recent rain, this section of the Appalachian Trail included slick stone slabs, narrow wet ledges, and even dripping iron rungs affixed to the rocks to aid with the ascent.  My forty pound pack weighed heavier on my back; determined still, I trudged up stone stairs, tripped over snaking roots, wiped the sweat from my forehead and neck.

A warning sign: CAUTION: the next mile of trail is rocky and steep.  Sheer cliff faces loomed ahead and I wondered if I wasn’t maybe just a little crazy to do this alone.  Rock edges provided a few inches of footing, toe holds, but I had to lean into the rock to keep my backpack, my weight, from shifting backwards.  If I didn’t, if I lost my balance, I was going over, way over.

Sweat ran in rivulets down my back. At one point on the trail, a white blaze arrow pointed straight up.  I took a deep breath, grabbed hold of an iron rung, and another, got beyond the rock face, squeezed between a pair of trees lining the path, too narrow to go forward with my pack, so sideways I inched through this challenging trail.  It was emotionally and physically exhausting, and I wanted to be done with it!

Reaching the top of the ridge did not put an end to the trek.  The trail Ts here… choose left or right.  

I had to fight the urge to de-pack then and there, but I knew if I let down my load, I might not ever heave it up, get it back on my back.  To reach the actual tooth, I turned on a side path winding around small and large boulders knowing that it would take me to an open flat area on the west side of the jaw.

Knowing the Dragon’s Tooth summit to be a popular destination for weekend hikers and campers, not to mention Appalachian Trail thru-hikers, I chose a Tuesday and planned to leave on Friday morning, hoping by chance or good fortune to spend all that time completely alone.  This woodland summit with its modicum of flat ground offered no shelter, no tables, no benches, no latrines.  Exactly what I wanted…as primitive a camping spot as you might find on the Appalachian Trail.  I quickly spread out the pack, set up my tent, and claimed as much space as possible in hopes of discouraging anyone else who might think to spend the night.  

By the way, if you’ve never done this before, you should know there is a guarantee that travels with solo camping:  You will be tested. You will face trials. 

My camp-making complete, I went to refill my water bottle before climbing into the aerie, but the gallon water jug was missing.  WhatHow could that be?!  Frantic, I rifled through all of my gear again.  Where could I have left it?  No way I would survive three days and nights on the mountain with just bread…well, of course I would live, but those days would not be one bit fun.  My mind raced backwards down the trail, retracing my hike… Please, please universe I prayed looking up at the sky.  Please tell me I do not have to hike back down to the car and back up here again…five miles more before I rest.  I thought I heard a laugh.  I had!  My own. The idea of hiking the round trip right now seemed so absurd I laughed, and laughed harder.

Disbelief danced with clarity.  I had two choices.  I could either abort my quest completely, pack up and head home, OR I could see this as the first test…was I true to my quest?  How hard was I willing to push myself?  The good news: I could make the roundtrip without 40 pounds on my back.  It would feel almost like flying.  Ha!  Five miles of mountainous trekking was still five miles; even so, I chose the challenge.  Down, down I went, back and forth, and around.

I tried to gauge the number of switchbacks remaining, but had to let that go because then came the verticals. I’ll spare you the pain.  The round trip was a lot quicker; still, my body ached by the end of my second summit.  I was spent.  I grabbed my loaf of bread and jug of water and took a seat on a boulder in the cleft, the narrow viewpoint in the outcropping between the incisor and the molar, eating my bread and drinking my water while my body recovered.  

When I felt rested and whole once again it was time to climb to the aerie.  Most hikers head left of the cleft and climb up the official Dragon’s Tooth.  But most hikers do not know about the molar, that not only is it accessible, but it also has a rock nest, the aerie, from which to view the world below.  That’s probably because reaching the aerie is neither for the incurious, nor the faint of heart.  

I carried my rosewood recorder in my smaller knapsack with my drum rigged by a strap on my pack. To warm her soft wood, I played scales a few times, then blew some wistful tunes…I was after all, alone, on a mountaintop…alone.  Soon a squadron of sharp-winged swifts swooped in keen-edged diagonals all around.  I chose to see this as a gift, this exhilarating aerial dance of precision, a heralding.

Altogether, I had spent six weeks of Saturdays with a master drum maker (see All things are connected) during which time I sanded strips of oak wood, stretched and soaked hides, drilled and bound wood to wood, plus other drum making duties for drum master, Gentle John.  But also for myself because, finally, after years of thinking about it, I had created a drum, a thing of beauty (from my perspective), sounding the deepest, purest notes, ringing with accomplishment.

Returning from the recollection to the rock, my senses felt finely attuned. I grew contemplative and sat in wonder taking in the view.  What was this affinity I felt for the Native American spirit?  What urged me toward self-imposed vision quests?  Why search for deeper earthly connections, for divine/universal conversation, for enlightenment?  What compelled me to seek the ineffable?

The summer before the most recent May, in the apple orchard on the outside perimeter of our campfire circle, I built with the help of friends a tee-pee made with twelve freshly cut bamboo poles (leaves still on the stalk) measuring 20 feet in length. Together we raised it into place. I never covered the frame, preferring the synchronous sense of shelter and open-air.  One night while camping inside, tucked into my sleeping bag, looking up at the stars, I knew in my heart, I even vowed, I would make my own drum to play inside my own, this very teepee.

Fast forward to my seat in the aerie with day’s light fading, tapping my drum, thoughts of my good fortune dancing swiftly about my head.  Lost in the rhythm and the dance, I drummed until twilight when it was time to leave.  I stood and bowed, asking for grace during my way back down to level ground. Grace was granted. Pleasantly exhausted, I took a pee then ducked into my tent, snuggled deep in my bag and quickly fell asleep.  That evening and the morning made the first day.   

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Wednesday was exploration time.  I hiked a few miles north along the ridge, stopping often to play a tune, to drum a rhythm, to sit as just another lump on a rock outcropping, no more, no less a part of this beautiful earth; to end the second night the same as the first – in the aerie, on top of the world.  To be one…to be none…….

Still, imperfection is always just around the corner.  Mine. Theirs. Those annoying voices, those southern accents scraping across my spine like metal grinding metal, or metal grinding teeth, like the dentist’s office.  It was now Thursday afternoon.  I sat in the aerie hearing voices rise from the trail below.  Sadly they, the three of them it sounded like, were headed this way.  Curses!

After spending more than two days blissed out on nature, I was shown a different reality…my prejudices.  I reluctantly observed one of many imperfections. Though I was supposed to be on the path…giving, accepting, practicing equanimity…sadly, now that I had opened to a wider perspective, I could no longer ignore the truth: I deemed anyone with a southern accent… dense, dumb, or dim-witted.  And because of that prejudice, that preconception, I hoped the humans belonging to those grating voices did not plan to spend the night.

I listened carefully, alertly, as the hikers rose higher, climbed closer.  I could tell by the tone of their voices they were young.  You can tell a lot about people if you listen, really listen to them (you will see the irony in this soon). I guessed the loud talking guys were somewhere between fifteen and twenty, as their twangy teenage voices rose to torment me.  Well maybe, I hoped, they had hiked just to sit on the Dragon for a bit, maybe not to spend the night.  For sure, I had been lucky to camp two days and nights by myself in an elevated state, a true gift.  But I had come to camp three days and three nights.  I did not want to leave, nor would I feel comfortable camping so far removed from civilization with three strange guys…three strange guys with those irritating accents.  No peace there.

Well, I would sit here in the best and highest seat on my rock outcropping; I would try to let go of my unworthy thoughts, my judgments. The true strength of my practice would be to meditate in spite of the disturbance below and behind me, to be thankful for the landscape before me, a view of incredible beauty, so sublime each siting caused a kinesthetic response.  And then, because of practice, the internal voice went into choir mode, Hummmm easily lent itself to Ommmmm.  While I followed my breath with my inner ear, my optical eye followed the rock wall outline of forests and fields once fallow, now bursting with green growth, a patchwork quilt of corn, alfalfa, and more.

Continuing to breathe in deeply, to feel my infinite connection, the voices behind me quieted to mere whispers, then disappeared…nature prevailed…a profound sense of complete, perfect bliss…soon “I” disappeared…just the rocks, the mountains, the trees, the wind…whispering a favorite Emerson quote, I become a transparent eye-ball. I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or particle of god.

Moments passed, or maybe I floated once around eternity….. eventually, I returned to the present and saw that afternoon had rotated to early evening.  The silence was palpable……no voices. My prayers had been answered: I would have my last night on the mountain alone. 

I climbed down from the aerie…slowly, carefully…one could so easily fall off the mountain’s face. Tense fingers gripped crags while my boots poked around for spaces big enough to hold my tiptoes.  Soon I was back on the ground, making my way to my tent by climbing over and squeezing around huge boulders.  Looking down, being sure not to stumble over roots or rocks, thinking about my bread and water dinner, I was stopped short.  Oh dear, those three teenage boys.

“Excuse me, m’am” the tallest and skinniest of the trio spoke in his southern, mountain born drawl.  I tried not to grimace.  At least he had manners, even if his speech sounded like his tongue was trying to talk over pebbles rolling in his mouth. “Would it be ok if we camped here tonight?”

Disappointment emptied my hope, a deflated balloon my heart, yet what could I say?  “I don’t own the mountain.  I had hoped to be alone tonight, but I guess it’s ok.”  I sighed. “You’re not gonna make a lot of noise, are you?”

Again, the tall one, “No m’am, we’re just gonna do a little rock face climbing up the Tooth, have a little dinner, then go to bed.  Wanna join us?” He motioned first to his friends, then to the ropes already dangling off the fifty foot high cliff.  The other boys looked up at him, looked at me, and smiled.  I could see now they were early high school age, harmless enough…still.

“Ah, no thank you,” I demurred.  “I’ve never climbed with ropes and gear.”

“Well, you were up there in the eagle’s nest, so fear’s not stopping you.”

He called it the eagle’s nest, like I do, I thought.

“No, not afraid, just that, ehhh, it’s going to be dark before long. You can’t climb in the dark.” I was hedging, still not convinced I should trust these dudes.

“No worries; we came prepared with a couple of floods to light up the top, and for the lower rocks,” I saw as he pointed, a small fire burning in a nicely constructed stone pit.  A cast iron skillet and kettle sat on a rock in the middle of the fire.  These guys appeared to be quite competent.

“There’s nuttin’ to it. C’mon, we’ll show you. Oh, yeh, I’m Jake, dude next me, brother Billy, and the short one we call “Short Pants.”

“Johnny,” Short Pants corrected with a heavy sigh. Then Johnny turned and leapt to the rock face, scrambling halfway up faster than a lizard.

“Wow, you’re good,” I shouted to him. I had climbed this giant boulder before, but never from the west facing vertical backside, always from the somewhat easier sloping south side, the side everyone climbed to “conquer the Dragon.”       

Rays of Hope

“The first sparrow of Spring! The year beginning with younger hope than ever.” Henry David Thoreau

Amanda Gorman our National Youth Poet Laureate is a fine young sparrow whose poem, The Hill We Climb, delivered at the Inauguration of President Joe Biden, deeply moved a nation and offered renewed hope on January 20th, 2021.

Though this was our Nation’s Inaugural Day, I can’t help but include a little history of my own because this, too, provides a confirmation of hope.  Martha Tabor showed her first of five Prophet’s Wheels on our property in Highland, Maryland.  We used to host Open Studio every summer where artists from the Baltimore and Washington, DC area would hang, set, install or perform their art outside among the trees in the forest that was our property. The entire neighborhood was invited in to see and to buy if they chose.

When I saw her magical piece my heart cried out to have it for my own home, but the musician and I could not afford the asking price. I didn’t know Martha at the time, but we became fast friends, and like Michael Gessner (who was our original connection), she would come out to our property to gather wood for her sculptures and to let her two dogs run free.  

Sadly, Martha passed away far before she should have.  All of her unsold art she willed to The Friends (Quakers) community to which she belonged.  This piece, however, had been damaged, one ray of hope had broken off and therefore deemed somehow of little value.  Michael was offered the piece but he declined, suggesting instead it go to us, knowing how much I loved Martha’s work.  A gift, from a friend, from The Friends.

The lesson: cast your dreams, like rays of light, into the future…name them…call to them singing, “I will see you soon. I know what you look like. I feel your essence. ”  Name your dreams. Call to them from mountains and mesas, from valleys and streams.

 

All photos by me unless otherwise noted.

Featured Sculpture: Prophet’s Wheel by Martha Tabor (made with curly willow, hickory and poplar)

Craning

“It’s the beauty within us that makes it possible to see the beauty around us. The question is not what you look at but what you see.” — Thoreau

When I first arrived at my river sanctuary I could see through the bushes and the leaves, a single sandhill crane thirty feet away on one of the many long, narrow islands the shallow river had created. Separated by ephemeral streams, the rills and rivulets looked like fingers stretching, searching for the unimpeded flow.  I pushed through the tamarisk blind onto a narrow slip of sand, then stopped.  Holding my breath, I quickly but quietly doffed my satchel and sat down slow-motion slowly so as not to startle my grey-feathered friend.  The crane turned away with mock indifference and headed for the far west bank.  I watched, entranced, held captive by the moment.

Shortly, two more cranes emerged from the island bushes to join the larger of the three. Together, on long stilted legs, they preened, stretched, bowed and pecked their way across the damp sand flats until reaching the flow on the western bank.  I felt awash in deep gratitude, grateful they didn’t fly away, grateful I was allowed to observe their foraging.

At first, they stood directly across from me on the nearest of the river islands, in truth nothing more than mud flats, where seasonal flora dressed in golden autumn and rusty sage danced their ebb and flow. Having crossed the width of the river, knee deep in the Rio Grande, they turned upstream into the current and set about their day’s business, feeding themselves while their eyes swept the deepest shallows, hoping to spot a fish floating by.  Alternately, one would take an alert posture, scanning the banks from left to right as good guards do to assure the group would not fall prey to beast or other fowl.  Fascinating to watch.

From the moment I sat on the warm, sunny shore my intuition urged me to join the sandhills, though wary of the water’s depth nearest me.  How far up my thighs, my waist, would the river rise? How deep into the ooze might I sink?  People have been quicksand-stranded on the river flats, never completely sucked under, but stuck nonetheless, requiring rescue.

Always curious, a nature investigator, I watched the fowl forage, observing how high the river rose on their lanky crane legs, gauging approximation to my own body.  Never above their knees I noted; therefore, not above mine.  That was the information I needed to get me up off my duff and test the water’s temperature with my toes.  Would I follow the cranes?  Dare I embark on a simple exploration…alone as I was in a great, wide river valley?IMG_4049 (3)

Of course I did, happy to have worn my water Keens.   Keen to have worn my happy.  Fortunate among beings I stood in this wide, long stretch of the river.  Alone.  No children cried, no dogs barked, no planes roared or leaf blowers buzzed, no one to answer to…just peace.  The warm wind, the welcoming water, so lovely.  I basked like a turtle, feeling the energy of the sun infuse my every molecule while downstream visual perspective joined the banks at the bend in the river.  I laughed to see the last of the trees had dipped their crowns in gold, at the same time the cottonwoods upstream and nearest to me fluttered in their full, shimmering finery.

Words from a song hummed in my head…I wish I had a river I could sail away on… A gentle breeze enveloped me.  The water, the trees, and the land held me rooted yet flowing.  Grace rushed over and through me, a purifying cascade.

I do have a river, I realized!  I have this river, right here, right now flowing under and around me.  My heart sang out the words of another song, this one by Nahko from Medicine for the People …Each day that I wake, I will praise, I will praiseEach day that I wake, I give thanks, I give thanks….. Aloha Ke Akua

Offerings: “I am grateful for what I am and have.” HDT

I collect stones, driftwood, shells, etc. It’s not an easy thing for me to resist bringing them home. But I have discovered that if instead I make an offering with them, and record that act, I am less inclined to acquire and more inclined to “let it go.” After all, how much do we need? And of course, some of those rocks are quite heavy.

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I actually took all of the rocks you see on this ledge home with me. In the back of my mind I kept feeling gluttonous for that act. Finally, I went alone and gave them back from whence they came.

This second time, on my way return to the car, I spotted this boulder.  I held in my hand a lovely, palm-sized red stone I had picked up after replacing all the others.  I am a rock cleptomaniac. Should I take home my hand-held stone?  Should I leave it in this quiet place? 

” I am grateful for what I am and have. My thanksgiving is perpetual. It is surprising how contented one can be with nothing definite, only a sense of existence. Well, anything for variety. I am ready to try this for the next ten thousand years, and exhaust it. How sweet to think of ! my extremities well charred, and my intellectual part too, so that there is no danger of worm or rot for a long while. My breath is sweet to me. O how I laugh when I think of my vague, indefinite riches. No run on my bank can drain it, for my wealth is not possession but enjoyment. ” Henry David Thoreau

Moon Lit

“Our truest life is when we are in dreams awake”– Thoreau

Mythical sirens called.  Compelled to follow, I drove alone through the night toward Vulan, Dark and JA volcanoes where I parked in the outer lot, empty until my arrival.  I was exquisitely and cautiously alone; a warrior is always alert.

Leaving safety behind, I climbed through an opening in the locked, metal gate and walked along the moonlit trail, a somnambulant hypnotically urged forward.  The vast open plain spread out before and behind, hushed but for the soft whisper of wind through the sage.  I thought perhaps I might witness something magical, something magnificent even.  Nature often rewards our efforts when communion is our purpose.

Through a haze of fairy-book wonder, I looked up.  Magic had already taken hold….luminescent orb!

IMG_20181218_193101640I stopped to watch a shallow stream of clouds pass over the moon.

The slow current flowed north to south along the western rift edge of the Rio Grande River Valley.  The moon danced in ether, bathed in a billowing diaphanous dress, a glowing sphere of mystery. Perhaps this nomadic community of water vapor had coalesced from the earlier heat of the day, or maybe this mystical mist had been conjured for my eyes only; a pleasure I was witness to contemplate.

Me, my moon shadows, and the sweeping sky above, humbling in its boundless grace. I laughed and twirled around whispering, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

The intention had not been to actually climb one of the volcanoes.  The walk from the outer parking lot measures more than a mile and a half to the top, not a long hike during the day, but under moonlight one’s footing is always tenuous.  Plus, it was very cold.  I would return with wind in my face.  Yet, JA rose closest in the distance, a darkened silhouette, an old friend calling me.  An old cone calling an old crone.  I could not resist the summons, so I set out to climb the narrow jagged path to the crest, stumbling, sometimes tripping, but determined.

The top!  My reward (as if the sky were not enough): a dazzling, sparkling, display of city lights far below toward the east, toward the Sandia Mts.  Bewitched, I laughed with delight and twirled around again, arms outstretched, hooting and howling my “barbaric yalp,” no false faces necessary when only the gods were watching.

Cautiously, I tread across the ancient caldera and soon found a windbreak. Here I turned toward the stone, hugged the jagged wall of lava, literally hugged it…cheek to rock…forehead pressing cold, aged pahoe-hoe.  Silent, standing perfectly still, I swear I felt JA’s heartbeat against my own chest. Here I met with eons and millenia, with this 125,000 year old rock and a primordial sky.

Back around to face the east, I leaned against the lava while looking up at the night and nestled in for a prayer.  I thought of Thoreau’s good friend Emerson who said it better than I.

“Standing on the bare ground…all mean egotism vanishes…I am nothing;      I see all; the currents of the universal being float through me.”

I understood my wee proper place within the warp and weft, the fabric of the universe; I wept with gratitude. How fortunate am I…are we?

Sentient beings on a beautiful planet!

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