“If there seems to be no communication between you and the people around you, try to draw close to those things that will not ever leave you. The nights are still there and the winds that roam through the trees and over many lands.” — Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
We’re often alone in this world, but alone doesn’t require loneliness. These days gifted to us are full of routine and ritual, from how we wake up in the morning to where we sit and what we eat. Who we interact with is often our choice, but alas, not always. How we react to everything and everyone we interact with—or don’t interact with—is always our choice.
Stepping outside on a spring day in New Hampshire, the world is alive in chatter. Birds and squirrels debate nest design or which yard has the best feeders today. A light wind might stir the tree tops like a hand brushing over tall grass, while a heavier wind might offer a gusty, heartfelt shake. No, there is no loneliness outside—the world is always present.
The garden begins to awaken. Rabbits have nibbled the tops off of some early bulbs, inspiring a silent curse and a fence resurrected to stake a claim for beauty. Days are longer now and there’s more to see, but for the stars as they concede more and more to the sun. Every day brings a new voice to the yard as the migration continues northward. Flashes of blue are a regular part of the days now as the Bluebirds, present all winter at the feeder, decided to make the birdhouse their own once again.
Every day is a poem. Every day offers an embrace when you step out to greet it. Even on the quietest of days, the wind always speaks.
“What do I make of all this texture? What does it mean about the kind of world in which I have been set down? The texture of the world, its filigree and scrollwork, means that there is the possibility for beauty here, a beauty inexhaustible in its complexity, which opens to my knock, which answers in me a call I do not remember calling, and which trains me to the wild and extravagant nature of the spirit I seek… The texture of space is a condition of time. Time is the warp and matter the weft of the woven texture of beauty in space, and death is the hurtling shuttle.” — Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
“Every religion that does not affirm that God is hidden,” said Pascal flatly, “is not true.” What is man, that thou art mindful of him? This is where the great modern religions are so unthinkably radical: the love of God! For we can see that we are as many as the leaves of trees. But it could be that our faithlessness is a cowering cowardice born of our very smallness, a massive failure of imagination. Certainly nature seems to exult in abounding radicality, extremism, anarchy. If we were to judge nature by its common sense or likelihood, we wouldn’t believe the world existed. In nature, improbabilites are the one stock in trade. The whole creation is one lunatic fringe. If creation had been left up to me, I’m sure I wouldn’t have had the imagination or courage to do more than shape a single, reasonably sized atom, smooth as a snowball, and let it go at that. No claims of any and all revelations could be so far-fetched as a single giraffe. The question from agnosticism is, Who turned on the lights? The question from faith is, Whatever for?” — Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
At some point a month or two ago I gently put aside Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. It was right around when things got very busy, when bad news began to stack up around me like junk mail, when processing the deeper concepts behind Annie Dillard’s words became a bit more than I wanted to tackle at the moment. Everything has its time.
Yet the questions remained.
What do we make of all this texture? Every ridge line traversed, every waterfall’s mist tickling our skin, every deep conversation with another, every swim in a salty bay, and every sunrise glimpsed are but texture to our lives. But then again, so is every mosquito bite. It’s all so damned far-fetched, and yet here we are.
I have a sister who is firmly in the God camp. I’m more skeptical of the Hallmark version of a loving God moving the world around like so many chess pieces. We both know life isn’t fair and throws you a curveball now and then to keep you on your toes. We just happen to disagree about “who” is winding up to throw it. And yet we peacefully coexist in both the universe and family dinners—we just don’t question each other’s beliefs.
It’s easy to be outraged by the other side of the coin. They’re tossing around beliefs that just don’t jibe with our world views. Yet we’re the same coin. It’s fair to ask both “Who turned on the lights?” and “Whatever for?” We’re all asking our version of What’s It All About Alfie? Who said that we are ever meant to know the answers?
Thankfully, we aren’t alone in pondering the imponderables; as with Dillard and Bacharach framing the questions in this post, we may draw on the wisdom of the ages at any time. Philosophy doesn’t answer the questions for you, but it does help you structure those questions better. We only have our short time to dance with the mysteries of the universe, and will never have all the answers.
And yet… we get so caught up in the “who, what and why” questions that we forget to ask: How do we make the most of our present condition? For the universe only asks us to live in our time. You come to appreciate the tapestry of life a lot more when you learn to weave yourself into it and let the questions fall away.
“The sky is the daily bread of the eyes.” — Ralph Waldo Emerson
Last night offered a small chance to see the northern lights as the skies cleared just enough to open up the universe. What are you to do with an opportunity like that but chase after it? With son and daughter as my two co-conspirators we jumped in the truck and drove northward over twisting country roads. Higher elevations, darker skies, reason for hope to witness that elusive sky dance.
We never did find the northern lights. Instead we found the starry dome, the wind whispering a chilly welcome, and time to catch up with each other in a random field far from home. The sky above didn’t disappoint, even as we recognized that it wasn’t going to show all its cards to our power trio. As the clouds rolled back in, we jumped back in the truck for the drive home. We agreed the chase was worthwhile, if only for the billion stars dancing infinitely above and for locking us in the amber of the moment in revelatory quiet below.
We don’t just stumble upon revelation, we must seek it out. Having a spirit of adventure mixed with a sense of place may seem contradictory, as if chasing dreams means leaving home. But the spirit that calls is the universe, and it in turn is our place. You see it more clearly when you get away from the ambient light.
We are the first double-leaf sprout, two inches out of the ground. We need rain, or we may not grow more than this. — Rumi
The rain rolled in right on schedule, really, timed to mask the Aurora Borealis thoroughly and keep my mind from wandering north. Quietly scheming to drop everything and drive as far north as necessary to be under the northern lights, it became a blessing when I saw there was no point in trying this time. Even as the geomagnetic activity caused a stir of excitement in the aurora community, Mother Nature mocked the audacity of those of us waiting for our turn in New Hampshire.
April is the second month of the Roman calendar. Depending on the sources you believe, the name is derived from the Roman word Aprillis, for second, or aperio, which means to open up as a flower does. I’ll stick with the former, even as I recognize the world opening up around me. April showers help this process, even as it masks the magic in the universe.
So be it. We need the rain. More importantly, I need to be present here and now, focused on things beyond my control. Let it rain. April showers wash away the last of winter and coax the earth to awaken in the gun-shy way annuals always approach April in New England. Stick your head up too quickly and you’ll end up freezing it off. Yet one day at a time the world begins to green once again.
We asked the universe for clear skies, we received days of steady rain. These are the gifts we don’t always welcome in the moment, but come to appreciate some time down the path. For now we must be rooted, and using the stormy days for growth.
“We do not know how life is going to turn out. Therefore the story has no beginning, and the end can only be vaguely hinted at. The life of man is a dubious experiment. It is a tremendous phenomenon only in numerical terms. Individually, it is so fleeting, so insufficient, that it is literally a miracle that anything can exist and develop at all. I was impressed by that fact long ago, as a young medical student, and it seemed to me miraculous that I should not have been prematurely annihilated. Life has always seemed to me like a plant that lives on its rhizome. Its true life is invisible, hidden in the rhizome. The part that appears above ground lasts only a single summer. Then it withers away — an ephemeral apparition. When we think of the unending growth and decay of life and civilizations, we cannot escape the impression of absolute nullity. Yet I have never lost a sense of something that lives and endures beneath the eternal flux. What we see is blossom, which passes. The rhizome remains. In the end the only events in my life worth telling are those when the imperishable world erupted into this transitory one. That is why I speak chiefly of inner experiences, amongst which I include my dreams and visions. These form the prima materia of my scientific work.” — Carl Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections
Our lifespan is but the bloom that eventually withers away, yet the rhizome remains in our spirit and the work we leave behind for others. Think of the traits we see carry from generation to generation. Think of the art and music that resonates long after the composer has withered away. We have people that stay with us for the rest of our days; we can see the twinkle in their eye, we can hear their laughter. Life is Jung’s ephemeral apparition, but as we feel of those who have transcended this world, the physical manifestation of our being isn’t all there is of us.
Our season is very short, but rooted below the surface we’re anchored to eternity. And this, when you think about it, offers a bit of hope in this ridiculous game of living. For we come and go in our season, but our rhizome remains. There’s a sense of permanence in that, as we make the most of our impermanent time in bloom. We shine in our time and offer what we might to those who carry on.
Mid-March brought the turkeys back. They roost high in the white pine trees at the edge of the forest, protected from the coyotes, bobcats and other predators who long for a turkey dinner. They’re silent during the early morning hours until something disturbs them. This morning that something was me.
Coffee in hand, I walked out into the songbird chorus of pre-dawn, stood silently to let the world sink in, and caught a glimpse of motion out of the corner of my eye. Turning to greet it, I watched a single turkey glide away in the early light. Soon another one began it’s own glide from the high trees to some place further away. A few beats later another dozen flew off silently, and then the squawking began. Grumpy morning conversation about the guy with his coffee disturbing the sleep-in.
I ought to write about St. Patrick’s Day or the luck of the Irish. I ought to write about war and pandemics and the collective pain we all feel at the disruption of our lives by things out of our control. But the sight of turkey’s gliding silently through a dim, foggy morning in New Hampshire reminded me that we each leave our small ripple on the universe in our own way. Today I disturbed the roost, but they don’t seem worse for the wear.
It made me wonder, what else lies dormant, waiting to be stirred in the foggy morning?
The Aurora Borealis visited Southern New Hampshire again last night. I know it because reliable sources told me so, not because I actually saw it myself. But I dashed outside, cursed the bright Waxing Gibbous moon and the neighbors for their inclination to leave outdoor lights on and sought out the darkest parts of the street for… nothing. Well, nothing but the universe, which is admittedly still pretty spectacular.
When you live on the absolute edge of reach of the Northern Lights you suffer through many moments like this. What are we to do but venture northward to Aurora destinations? We choose where we live where we live for the proximity to others, not for the dance in the sky. Maybe we have it all wrong?
The act of dashing outside for the remote possibility of seeing colors in the sky isn’t unusual for me. I do it every morning to see how the universe is waking up. Many nights, wishing to properly tuck the day in for the evening, you’ll find me peeking outside for a splash of orange and pink and purple highlights. And if there’s even a hint of a meteor shower you’ll find me out in the dark like a madman, shuffling foot to foot or lying on the ground staring up at Perseus.
This all might seem crazy, but I’d suggest that watching manufactured drama unfold in 30-60 minute segments is just as crazy. I dash to greet the universe, others may dash back to the couch after a bathroom break during commercials. Both dashes might have their place in our lives. The bigger question, I suppose, is where do you want your dash bring you?
Build a new house down by the sea Get to the place we were meant to be You’ll know it when you smile —World Party, When the Rainbow Comes
Do you ever wonder why people are drawn to the seashore? Is it the taste of salt, or the sound of waves crashing on the beach? These are lovely things indeed. But I think it’s also the place where our world opens up to the universe, where the view is the same for us today as it was for some soul living 10,000 years ago. And so long as we don’t screw it up it will be the same 10,000 years hence. All rivers flow to the ocean, and so must we.
Ah, but what of the source? The rivers all flow from the highest points downward. And we often look up and wonder what we might find when we get there. For the mountains whisper differently than the sea, but no less persistently. When you walk amongst the peaks you feel like you might touch the sky, and the song in the wind feels as timeless as the crash of the ocean. Do we become breathless in the mountains from exertion or from awe? I should think both.
The thing is, we tend to be drawn to the edges; both source and sea. Yet most people settle in between. Is this a compromise between the places we love, or simply a pragmatic nod to efficiency? When you live at one end or the other you necessarily have a longer journey to the middle, let alone to what lies beyond. Crops don’t grow in beach sand or on granite summits. Somebody has to keep things going in the middle. Call it a happy medium if you will. But does settling in the middle like everyone else bring you happiness, or is it just settling?
Life pulls us in different directions, and most of us settle somewhere in the middle. But the magic resides at the edges of our comfort zone. And deep down you know you’ve reached the place you were meant to be when you smile.
“On every side, the eye ranged over successive circles of towns, rising one above another, like the terraces of a vineyard, till they were lost in the horizon. Wachusett is, in fact, the observatory of the State. There lay Massachusetts, spread out before us in its length and breadth, like a map. There was the level horizon, which told of the sea on the east and south, the well-known hills of New Hampshire on the north, and the misty summits of the Hoosac and Green Mountains, first made visible to us the evening before, blue and unsubstantial, like some bank of clouds which the morning wind would dissipate, on the northwest and west. These last distant ranges, on which the eye rests unwearied, commence with an abrupt boulder in the north, beyond the Connecticut, and travel southward, with three or four peaks dimly seen. But Monadnock, rearing its masculine front in the northwest, is the grandest feature.
As we beheld it, we knew that it was the height of land between the two rivers, on this side the valley of the Merrimack, or that of the Connecticut, fluctuating with their blue seas of air,—these rival vales, already teeming with Yankee men along their respective streams, born to what destiny who shall tell? Watatic, and the neighboring hills in this State and in New Hampshire, are a continuation of the same elevated range on which we were standing. But that New Hampshire bluff,–that promontory of a State,—lowering day and night on this our State of Massachusetts, will longest haunt our dreams.” — Henry David Thoreau, A Walk to Wachusett
Mount Wachusett is a glaciated monadnock, standing 2006 feet tall. Like her neighbor to the northwest, Mount Monadnock in New Hampshire, Mount Wachusett stands watch over the landscape that bows before her. You can’t talk about one mountain without mentioning the other, for they are forever kindred spirits in the landscape. Both mountains are uniquely positioned so that their waters flow to the Merrimack River from one side and to the Connecticut River from the other. The waters from each river run in my blood, which made a hike to the summit a sort of homecoming for me. And yet, for all the hikes I’ve done on Monadnock, I’d never hiked Wachusett.
This was a month where the weather continued to disappoint those who dream of deep snow drifts, while thrilling those who pine for a mild winter. Count me in the camp of the former: I wanted nothing more than to fly across snow plains this winter. A heavy snowfall the day before offered one last chance for the month. But it was quickly apparent that this was a micro spike hike, and the snow shoes were left behind yet again.
From the Visitor’s Center, you can easily summit Mount Wachusett in under 30 minutes. But that wasn’t our goal. Instead we took the Bicentennial Trail around the eastern slope to High Meadow Trail, up through a stand of Hemlocks to the Pine Hill Trail. Fluffy snow over ice creates uncertain footing, and we slowed our pace to mitigate the risk of injury. For a time, the only break in the trail ahead was from a porcupine, who’s distinct tail marked the trail in footprints and swirly plows. It seems most people cut to the chase and scramble up the mountain. We were more inclined to linger with it, to get to know it better. To feel what Thoreau felt when he and Richard Fuller hiked here from Concord, set up their tent atop the lonely summit, and had the place to themselves for a night.
Wachusett’s summit has changed since Thoreau’s time. There’s a ski slope on one side, there’s a mountain road you can drive up in the warmer months to see the view without earning it, and there’s ample parking for those cars. A few towers, including an observation tower, complete the scene. I wonder, reading Thoreau’s account, where did they pitch their tent and read Virgil by the light of a summer full moon?
Winter snow obscures much of the impact of man, but you’re still clearly in a manmade world when you’re on the summit of Mount Wachusett. To return to nature you must seek the trails that criss-cross around the reservation. But the views are largely the same as they were for Thoreau’s 180 years ago. Just as it was for him, Monadnock stands prominently as the grandest feature of the 360 degree view.
Inevitably we left with more to see, trails and old growth forest to explore another day. For this day I found what I was looking for. Time with an old friend hiking trails I’d always meant to get to one day. And a glimpse into a world Thoreau would find both foreign yet comfortably familiar. Wachusett is timelessly accessible, but somehow always felt apart from the mountains I sought out. We finally got acquainted with one another.
Summit tower, Mount Wachusett Distinctive porcupine tracks mark the trailPlenty of exposed granite despite the snowWhich way do we go? Plenty of choices.
“Do you know that even when you look at a tree and say, ‘That is an oak tree’, or ‘that is a banyan tree’, the naming of the tree, which is botanical knowledge, has so conditioned your mind that the word comes between you and actually seeing the tree? To come in contact with the tree you have to put your hand on it and the word will not help you to touch it.” ― Jiddu Krishnamurti, Freedom from the Known
I encountered a stand of hemlock trees shading the path I walked. Combined with the crisp breeze I was quickly chilled. Not five minutes before I’d contemplated taking off layers and just like that the trees stole whatever warmth was radiating down from the sun and left me with nothing but cold. Yet the trees stood indifferently to my comfort.
Walking through the hemlocks, feeling their silent majesty, I stopped focusing on myself and appreciated the stoic beauty of the trees. These trees touched me, even as I felt their indifference. And I wanted to linger even with the cold wind relentlessly driving me to find a sunny spot on the trail. Now mind you, I don’t go around hugging trees. But I do exhibit what might be considered by some to be an unusual fondness for them. And these trees, red bark and green needles, are survivors. It’s not easy growing on a mountain, and my moment of cold discomfort was a good reminder of their toughness. For even now they stand together in the dark of a winter night, while I retreat to the comfort of home.
It’s funny, you can leave a stand of trees, yet they stay with you still.
