Spirit Journal – August 2018

In order to allow ourselves to be aware of this current of transformative perception and action, we need to not only persevere in our practices, but also engage in some intentional activity which will aid us.  One thing we can do is pay more attention to rituals that place us in a larger scale of human relationship to the transcendent.  For example, the eucharist connects us to thousands of years of basic and elemental human relationship to the divine in our daily life.  For me, the action of getting there, participating, and allowing the perception of placing myself into this flow of divine reality into our daily bread is a very grounding thing. Paying attention to ritual helps me stay the course of opening, and reduces the effects of reacting to the stimulus of everyday distraction.  Contemplation is not merely for our own edification, but hopefully builds a reservoir of strength and openness to act for others.

So, connectedness to the divine indwelling does not only happen during centering prayer.  We are called to transformation in prayer and work, ritual and daily activities.  The capability for keeping our inner silence during interactions with others is the muscle we develop through a regular practice of meditation.  Living contemplatively, we walk a paradox of receptivity and interiority.  We can think of relationships as  opportunities to receive the person on the other side of the interaction, whether it is someone we are at ease with or at odds with.  Rather than focusing on acting or reacting well, we can simply receive them lovingly.  We are called not to be perfect, but to be loving.

Personally, I find myself spending very little time on facebook.  I don’t watch television news.  I listen to the radio in my car and will listen to the news there a little bit.  I also allow my conversations with friends to both inform me and verify for me that I am not isolated.  In these ways, I am aware of the news stories with very little effort, although there is much content on TV and on the internet that I do not pay attention to.

I listened to Krista Tippett, of the On Being project, speak recently on the topic, “How can we be present to what’s happening in the world without giving in to despair and hopelessness?” I thought she was quite eloquent, and her ideas certainly resonated with my own. Here is a portion of what she had to say:

I think it’s important, first of all, to acknowledge the pain and dismay and distress and despair that just follows the news – the being present to what’s happening in the world right now – causes.  And I don’t think this is all that imaginative, but for me, one way I stay grounded is by limiting my exposure to what I am taking in.  And that’s not choosing to be uninformed, but I don’t actually think we are equipped, even physiologically or mentally, to be delivered catastrophic and confusing news and pictures, 24/7.  We are analog creatures in a digital world.  So I don’t follow what happened in the last 20 minutes, all day long, and I think that’s actually, right now, a spiritual discipline.

I listen to the BBC morning news program; not the World Service, but the BBC morning news that was on six hours ago, our time. So I know if any big thing has happened overnight, but I know, also, that whatever happened in the last few hours, I will find out about in due course. And I don’t need to feed myself a constant diet of despair.

The spiritual discipline and way to stay grounded is that however seriously we must take what’s happening in the world and what the headlines are reflecting, it is never the full story of our time. It’s not the last word on what we’re capable of. It’s not the whole story of us. And we have to take that other narrative that’s not reaching the headline point, which is a very specific bar. Journalism, the way it came down to us from the 20th century, is absolutely focused, utterly and completely, on what is catastrophic, corrupt, and failing. And then, at the same time, there are good people. There are healing initiatives. There is a narrative of healing and of hope and of goodness, and we also just, as a discipline, have to take that in, as well — not instead of, but the both/and of humanity and of our world.

And I think it’s only in doing that that we keep flexing and strengthening our hope muscle. Hope is a muscle. It’s a choice. It is a vigorous choice, to see what is wrong and what needs healing and needs repair and needs our attention and also to keep our hearts and our imaginations and our energy oriented towards what we want to build, what we want to create, what we’re walking towards.

There have been days in the last few weeks where I just didn’t know, really, whether it was OK to get out of bed, with what’s going on in the world. I remember a conversation Chris and I had, the other morning, with all these kids on the border, and I was just saying, “Part of me wonders, should we be getting on an airplane and just become witnesses, if nothing else?” And I am haunted, just like everybody else, by the inadequacy I feel — and doubting: am I doing enough? So that is true.

And I actually think, with that, it’s really important for us to name that and to name it together and to accompany each other, even in this despair and in our wondering about what we can do in our way, in our place, with our energy, even in just a subtle way, to shift things. One thing that I’m really aware of, especially right now, both with the news from Europe and the news from here, is the attention I pay to language and I see how we have lapsed into calling the people on ships that are floating perilously around oceans, or children and parents in detention on our border, how we call them migrants. And what difference it would be, both for the journalists reporting this and the politicians legislating it and for us, consuming it and figuring out what to do, as fellow citizens. I think we have to call ourselves, always, to call them people. So that’s something I pay attention to that’s in my mind. How can I insert my understanding of the power of language in the places I’m working? And I don’t think that’s enough, but I think that’s what I can do today.

And again, I think, however justifiably granular our despair and confusion might be on any given day, it is so, so critical that we keep orienting ourselves towards the long view, towards the fact that what we are in the midst of is culture shift. It is going to play itself out in generational time. And so, we have to, at the same time that we act and speak and think critically about what’s happening in the moment, we have to embody and walk with and towards how we want to live in contrast to that, how we want to live beyond this. We cannot call forth in the world something that we don’t embody. And an ability to be able to take joy is — I’ve been in rooms full of very well-meaning, good people, who are doing good work in the world for whom, I think, the idea that you should have joy, any joy, in a moment like this, would be a betrayal of what is right and just and good; would perhaps be a denial or even a diminishment of people who are in pain right now.

There’s a sensibility behind that stance that says that joy is a privilege. And I don’t think joy is a privilege. I think freedom can be a privilege; I think luxury and comfort can be a privilege. But joy is a piece of basic human resilience. It’s a human birthright. And in fact, one of the paradoxical and amazing things about our species is how people are able to get through the worst, also, with their joy muscle intact. So I think, if we want to call the world not just to justice but to joy and to flourishing, of which joy is a part, we have to find those ways and those places where that is also what we are finding and stirring and keeping alive in others. It’s that both/and.

I think spiritual geniuses — I’ve worked with that phrase of Einstein’s over the years — and I think there are so many more spiritual geniuses of the everyday, as there are the famous spiritual geniuses. I think it’s a yes/and mentality. It’s absolutely to bring clear eyes to what in the world must be better, and to be present to the world and its frailty and its suffering, but also, to see that “and” — to wake up every morning and say, “Yes, yes. That is true. I am present. I see it. I care” — and to see that generative part of the story that you can be part of.

For a third take on this tension between distraction and peace, which can seem to be unique to this very moment in time but may in fact be a permanent aspect of the human condition, we can look to an ancient source, the Hebrew Bible or Old Testament:

Psalm 94:

O Heart of Pure Fire, You who

cleanse and refine us,

               Compassionate One, shine forth!

In your mercy, rise up and

               Awaken those who still sleep

                              In ignorance!

O Heart of all Hearts, break open

                              The hearts of your people,

               That we might hear your Voice

                              And heed your Word!

 

Too often we spew forth arrogant words,

               We boast with our heads held high.

We oppress the weak in our blindness,

               And turn a deaf ear to the cries

                              Of the poor.

We ignore the lonely and turn aside

                              From the stranger,

               Too many children go hungry to bed.

And, we think, “This is not our concern;

               Let them pray to God for help!”

Understand, O dullest of the people!

               When will the ignorant Awaken?

The Beloved who created the ear, hears us!

The Beloved, who formed the eye, sees us!

Like the nations, we are accountable

                              for our actions.

Where does knowledge come from, but

                              the Heart of our heart.

               The Beloved knows our thoughts, and

                              is the very Breath of our breath.

Blessed are those who have confessed their

                              erring ways,

               Who have asked for forgiveness.

Blessed are those whose burdens have

been lifted,

               who are able to respond with love.

For the Beloved walks with the and

               speaks to them in the Silence;

With mercy and compassion, they

                              are held in Love’s heart;

               all who are at one with Love will

                              live in peace and harmony.

 

Who will stand with Love and act

                              with justice?

               Who will speak out to silence

                              the oppressors?

Had the Beloved not come to my rescue,

               my soul would still dwell in

                              the land of darkness.

When I recognized my wrongdoings,

               your steadfast Love renewed me,

                              O Compassionate One.

When the cares of my heart were many,

               your consolations comforted my soul.

Those who live separated from Love,

               do not know the peace and joy of

                              walking with You.

They gather together to try those

                              who walk in peace,

               and with worldly power, they

                              condemn the innocent.

Yet the Beloved is a stronghold,

               the Comforter, the refuge

                              of my soul.

The statutes of Truth are certain;

               and the Awakening, a promise

                              to be fulfilled;

               who will be ready for the

                              new dawn?

From “Psalms for Praying,” by Nan C. Merrill

To actually overnight for days in a reasonably safe way, though, we have to prepare for weather we’ll face. That means shelter, for one thing. I mentioned that I use a tarp, which is about the size of a poncho, made of light fabric similar to thin Tyvec house-wrap. Weighing half a pound, it ties to my trekking poles to form a simple A-Frame. The tarp is well-used, so the hardest rain mists its way through, and it is so narrow that if I pitch it high enough to sit up, there is about six inches of opening between the tarp and the ground on the sides, where six strings stake it down. It has been more than sufficient though in the unexpected hail and driving rain so far.

I packed minimal clothes: one shirt, one pair of pants, with a light and a lighter jacket — layer to handle weather changes. The only spare clothes are two pair of underwear and three pair of socks (the extra pairs were a luxury that most ultra-light trekkers avoid). For me, extra weather gear meant thin long underwear, a poncho for rain and a hat for sun. Heeding the adage that a pound on your foot is like five pounds on your back, I chose running shoes for my only footwear.  A sleep system totaling 29 ounces is the heaviest non-food related item in the pack, consisting of a good down quilt, silk liner, ultralight pad and a two-ounce ground cloth only a bit thicker than saran wrap.

My gear also included a cooking kit, which I’ll describe later. Some trekkers only eat cold food to reduce weight, but carrying minimum equipment to make a fire provides benefits beyond the occasional hot coffee or food. The required bear canister, at 2.5 pounds – and part of what I consider “food weight” — was by far my heaviest item, but an important one. The bear canister looks like   a large peanut butter jar, too large evidently for bears to get their jaws around, with a childproof lid (actually bearproof) requiring a strong articulated thumb to open.  You just lay it a bit away from yourself at night. Yosemite is home to an estimated 300 to 500 black bears, which can weigh up to 250 pounds.  The Park Service website says that encountering one of them “can evoke excitement, awe, and fear.”  The bear canister helps trekkers avoid such encounters. It protects your food but doesn’t always keep the curious creatures away. A friend of mine woke one night to find a bear standing above her, shaking her plastic canteen off his claw. Apparently, the bear was as shocked as she was, and he scampered away. She tells me bears smell terrible; I’ll take her word for it!

A cell phone, emergency transponder, and small items like toothbrush, meds, repair kit, water filter, and a tiny light round out my gear. Phew, writing this, it seems like there was so much “stuff,” but every item was heavily used, nothing a waste, all easy to reach at any time. This gear list is not exactly the austere simplicity experienced by the kid lying in the grass, but this is also not frivolous –a lot of thought and planning went into considering every THING I’d brought for two weeks outdoors, and all of it, including the small backpack itself, weighed about 12 pounds before adding food supplies.

Here at the Tuolumne General Store I also wasted precious time simply waiting to recharge my two electronic devices on their common outlet. My GPS transponder is my catch-all piece to make up for any mistake or tragedy, and my cell phone is mostly a camera and backup GPS since there’s no cell service out here. I charged them each to about 80% before I thought I couldn’t waste more key hiking time. I would make that last the three-four remaining days.

On the way out, crossing the automobile road and still wishing I could have a couple lazy days instead of the constant day-long hikes, I am tempted by a couple hitchhikers. Thumbing a ride is a common method of getting around here, and a twenty-something young woman who received a couple potatoes from my cache suggests that I could shorten my trip by hitching. A clear hitching expert, she says her norm is a half hour to get a safe ride.  She has the look down though, and I translate her half hour per ride as couple hour minimum wait for a shaggy, 60-year-old guy like me, who probably smells a bit like a bear himself. I’d likely have to hitch at least two or three rides to get anywhere that would help me, as well. Something inside me really does not want to get into a noisy machine and leave nature yet, and with this lighter pack I start to retrace my route in, looking forward to the beautiful silent meadows, the scenic ridges and lakes that I know will be coming.

Just a hundred steps from the touristy, docent-guided area, on the opposite end of the meadow from the cars, I’m into the Yosemite part of the wilderness. This happens to be part of the Pacific Crest Trail as well. Soon it’s only an occasional fellow backpacker that I see. It’s late morning and there is nosign of snow yet. Perhaps the ranger is wrong and I won’t even get the dusting he mentioned.

The abandoned Glen Aulin High Sierra Camp, where I slept next to the waterfall coming in, is inaccessible now, the bridge totally deconstructed and the water higher than I want to wade through. I can’t quite make it to the silent valley that I loved, so I simply step off trail when I feel I have just enough daylight to eat and make camp. Already nostalgic about the coming end of this sacred fortnight, I pick a secluded, wooded spot.  I feel back in the wild after the chaos of Tuolomne; no one would ever wander here, and after setting up my tarp low to the ground and with all tie-downs secure to protect from blowing snow, I am ready. I eat sitting on a moss-cushioned rock, and relax into the silent, fresh beauty of the forest, the familiar earthy smell, new mountain views peeking around the pine trees in one direction and a woodsy ridge behind me.  I meditate, allowing all my senses once more to fully open to the real world.

“Centering” truly brings me to my center. I’m in balance and so at peace. Prepared for the expected storm, I slide into my sleeping bag under the low tarp with a feeling of smugness. I feel protected and still open to what the world sends me. I trust. I trust my preparation, that this won’t be comfy all night when the temperature drops and snow comes, but I will be fine. I brought the right gear, staked out the tarp for wind and weather, and I’m ready, I trust something bigger even more, that this land will take care of me. Yes, I am not that important, and yet “every hair on your head is numbered” (Luke 12:7) and my “name is written in heaven” (Luke 10:20). Along with the tiniest living lichen on the rocks I stare at, every need of my body and soul is right here.  I belong.

I am cozy, and fueled with the food that should help my body warm me. The prospect of the beautiful return for the next and final three days on a familiar trail gives me comforting thoughts to match my comfortably conditioned and toasty body. Gazing up at the stars, I give thanks for a nicely secluded, serene spot. Breezeless pine-scented air fills my head and I soon drift to sleep.

After a couple of hours my bladder wakes me for my usual relief trip. I get up and tend to “nature’s call”. This isn’t bad; in fact, leaving my nest gives me another chance to look at my friend Orion beginning his nighttime dance across the sky.  His outstretched arms wave a greeting to me.  It is so nice of him to continue my walking for me while I sleep; good partners we are, he takes the night shift and I the day. I settle back in, vaguely noticing a few flakes of snow and cooler temperature. That’s OK, a bit of snow is what I was expecting and ready for. I doze off again.

I wake again, the snow is definitely here, it’s blowing in my tarp; I hang a poncho over the A-Frame’s open end by my head to keep it out.

A few hours later I wake as in a dream of being buried under the cold ground. Something is pressing on my chest. It’s the snow, heavy stuff and a few inches deep, caked on my low tarp. The snow’s weight has pressed my tarp on top of me, the thin fabric allowing the full weight of the snow to lie on me. My chest is buried and my nose pointing up only a couple of inches from the tarp above. I am still free to breath and, though my breathing is fast, I am just mildly fearful.

It is easy enough to kick off enough snow from inside to relieve the pressure, it’s an eerie feeling, mostly buried under snow. There is already much more snow than expected. I’m tired and I sleep again, and finally the sun comes up.

With the sun comes warmth, clarity of mind, and the comfort of the spirit that light gives. This is a new strange world, snow re-shaping the landscape. Snow blanketing the tree stumps and deadfall, snow gently clinging to the tree branches, glistening everywhere as the billions of new flakes catch the light here and there, shining all the colors back, like millions of tiny diamonds. The snow makes otherwise invisible animal activity clear to my feeble human senses. Animals must be able to smell what’s passed by, but it is not so easy for us.  Now I see the tracks from a deer within three feet of where my head lay last night. Was it curious about me, strange looking thing that I am, or curious about my snoring? If I were awake I could have grabbed the deer’s ankle, “Good to meet you, brother deer.” This is a time just to sit. Time not to waste, but to sit, to see. See deeply the Common Wonderful: It’s not about me, it’s bigger; it’s hard, but I am yoked to the Bigger, that burden is light and easy; I’m not in control — thank God I’m not, since God’ plan is so much more carefully designed.  Thank you Great One, for all that is and has been.

Still, I know I have a timetable for the next three days. After a morning Centering Prayer, I get moving. It takes a half-hour just to find my bear can under a few inches of snow.  I had gotten in the habit of hanging my hat and glasses at night. Finding the tree where I hung them, the hat is useless for now with a crust of snow imbedded in its fabric, I stuff it in the outside netting of my pack. I’m delayed but in great spirits, taking one of the few selfies of the trip — giving a thumb’s up in front of my half snow-covered tarp. My understanding is that this is the worst it will be, the fact that this is heavier and deeper snow than predicted is read by my inexperienced mind as proof that I’ve already exceeded the worst it could reasonably get. I had my bad luck so good luck is “due”.

Confident that I can handle all this, I follow the compass heading I thankfully set last night through the terrain, which is changed by the white frosting, and return to the trail. I’m so glad to see the trail already has footsteps on, it will be easy to follow, easier than on a snowless path as long as the traveler(s) ahead don’t go astray. I’m dependent on these markers of the trail. I call the footsteps of this unseen traveler “The footsteps of God,” and notice an occasional set of canine prints as well. It is a day I need to make some mileage.

I enter a beautiful silent meadow, more than a mile long, with a stream snaking through and mountains crisscrossing in the distance. It’s the meadow I saw coming in, the one I had named ‘Silent Meadow” and slept in, coyotes howling down the valley at night, while my journey was only beginning. It is the meadow with the enormous boulder looking like a hand, finger pointing to the distance. Going in, it pointed back and I wondered if it was suggesting I turn around. Now it points the way I am going, a direction I don’t need to be pointed, but maybe it’s telling me not to delay, to keep moving.

Soon, still in the meadow, both of the last two people I’ll see on the trail today emphasize the need to move on. This first, a young woman overtakes me, she’s moving so fast I can’t believe it, twice my speed, skipping in and out of the six-12-inch snow at times, to avoid water in the low spots. Cheerily, she says hi. I think I’m helping her out by sharing the ranger’s forecast that last night’s will be the only snow. She “has an app for that” (they all do), and seemingly has cell reception or had it recently. She says it is supposed to snow today and tomorrow, “but then it will be nice and sunny.” She beams, she’s nothing but positive. Her attitude is enlivening but I find it hard to believe that there will be more snow in September.  Indeed, it is snowing lightly now. I still feel good luck is due and this light flurry is all that the forecast is referring to. I expect the snow to fall off my jacket and be nothing but a pretty mystical scene to remember.

Not much further along, I see the last hiker I will see on this trip.  A 20-something man. He looks weird coming toward me in the distance, in short pants and strange leggings.

“How’s the trail ahead, have you seen a dog” I ask.

“No dogs, but a small group going your way.”

The “dog” tracks must be a coyote or other wild one then, even bobcat, it is walking on the trail when no one is there but heads off when someone sees it. The young man is polite but clearly does not want to stop to talk.

“I’m just trying to keep a steady pace and make it to Tuolumne or Glen Aulin.” He doesn’t say that walking is his only way to keep from freezing with so little clothing; to keep walking without rest.

We pass, it hits me: he was indeed freezing. A true ultra-light hiker, he was wearing only a paper-thin Dry Ducks rain jacket and shorts, the thin leg warmers, which barely go from knees to ankles, are probably the warmest things he carried for his legs, he would have had long pants on if he had them. I should have told him that I couldn’t get into Glen Aulin. He was also moving so fast that I’d never catch up if I wanted to turn and give him that news. I slog on.

I am moving slowly now, avoiding the wet areas in this meadow. Most of the trail has snow over it, but the ground underneath is a meadow, naturally damp and still retaining some warmth. Below the snow in places, especially the deeper trail tracks, there are water puddles and spongy wet grass. Cold water is seeping into my shoes. I follow the young woman’s trail when she steps out of the main path, where the snow is dry. The constant steps out and back in are enough effort to tire me prematurely.

Meanwhile large heavy snowflakes are not stopping, they cake up on my jacket and melt. It is sunny though, I am not freezing, and hope that it’ll warm up and dry off still. About midday I am warm, finally. With warmth, however, comes the realization that my body has melted the snow into my thin puffer jacket. Now I am damp, and it will be hard to dry off.

This happens to be about 1:20 PM on September 22 — Peace Day in Chicago. For 19 years I’ve belonged to the Peace School, a Meditation/Yoga/Martial Arts school that promotes serene peace demonstrations in Daley Plaza yearly. (Yes, if you notice the world today, we can get angry even talking about peace). The Peace School has obtained Peace Proclamations from every US state and many cities. I totally support their profession that each country and each state’s “mission be accomplished So, in solidarity with the Peace Day, I stop to meditate, wish “May peace be in the world”, and use the Mantra “Inhale, World; Exhale Peace” for twenty minutes.

I continue in good spirits, but fatigue hits. I sit on a sunlit boulder, free of snow and fall into a deep short sleep. Hiking again it soon gets colder.  In mid-afternoon, exhausted, I stop and spread my poncho on the snow to make a hot meal.

Back on the trail, wet from head to toe, I come across a stream that I will have to ford. Coming in, I’d taken my socks off to cross, but it hardly seemed worth it now, since the snow had worked its way into my running shoes. I cross with everything on, knowing I have a last dry pair of socks for tonight. My legs and feet grow numb in the water and I’m glad I can make it across the current to the other side. Now I find there are different degrees of “wet”, and my feet have made it to the higher end. I walk fast simply to keep my toes alive.

I realize I’m not going to make it as far as I hoped, my route takes me off the PCT and into the rarely travelled parts of the Hoover Wilderness. My goal to camp tonight is now the Trail Maintenance camp I saw coming in. It was a well-established, if mostly hidden camp, and if they are still there it will be a God-send. I could sleep on good old dirt instead of snow if they let me under their kitchen shelter. Maybe there are more hot meals, any advice on travel or the trail conditions would be welcome.

The good news is that I had marked their off-trail location on my GPS my second day coming in and found it now. The bad news is this site has been abandoned. Their gear was secured under a very large tarp, easily 3 feet by 8 feet by 3 feet high. There was no spot free from snow, but an area under a couple of trees had at least less snow. (Had they just abandoned the site this morning after the first snow?) Here I try to scrape off what snow there is and urgently lay out my sleeping system and tarp before the dark and more cold arrives. My synthetic jacket is supposed to provide some warmth even when damp, though as a measure of how cold it is, probably around 10 degrees and dropping, the outside of the jacket is frosted while the inside is still wet. I crawl into my sleeping bag and put on dry socks and every shred of damp clothing I have. This will be a hard night, I realize, and I cannot expect good luck from here on.

© 2018 Phillip Jackson