Spirit Journal – November 2018

As for Thomas’s teachings, he has left us with enough recordings and writings to keep any of us on our unique graduate tracks in Transformation for the rest of our lives. He encouraged us to evolve, while keeping our tradition strongly held. He painstakingly laid out his teachings and visions and would be the first to admit we all are part of the answer. Gail Fitzpatrick-Hoppler, first President of Contemplative Outreach wisely says, “None of us have it all together, but together we have it all.”

Thomas was one of three monks who started Centering Prayer, and the world still has the embodied gift of Fr. William Meninger, who found that old copy of The Cloud of Unknowing in the monastery library and formed the first version of Centering Prayer. The link to the Trappists is promised and permanent, I believe, with a commitment that the Monks have made to always identify a spiritual liaison between practitioners and their monastery. In Snowmass, Thomas taught the monks regularly until the time of his departure.  Other teachers, lay and vowed, have emerged from the Contemplative Outreach community, becoming known teachers and authors themselves, sometimes in new areas sometimes in the traditional. Leaders of various kinds, expressing various gifts, are throughout the Contemplative Outreach community worldwide.  Some teachers have sprouted from our movement into other areas of spirituality as well.

I do find myself these days terribly missing the unique incarnation we called Fr. Thomas Keating. I was so fortunate to meet him on retreat in Snowmass, attend 16-day and 10-day “Advanced Teachings” by Thomas, to which I was invited by an angel of Snowmass named Sarah. To spend hours one-on-one, and hundreds of hours watching him in our small group. At the end of those 16 days, Thomas hugged each of the twenty or so of us. Thomas was well over six feet and had such long arms. The hug was a surprise, and I now recall it as the closest I may ever feel in this life to being wrapped in the loving arms of God. The news of his passing has been expected; the grief I feel is something I was not ready for. What I learned from Sarah is that, not being able to see him in one space anymore, we will learn to see him in each other, and everywhere.

A long time ago, another spiritual teacher (who was by all accounts amazing but did not want to even be called “good”), told us that when he was gone, “You will do things beyond what I have done.” (John 14:12) Thomas has made this as easy for us as he can. He tells us that replacing him starts with each of us doing what he encouraged: practice the Prayer.  From that we can listen to how we are called, from those callings we may not only replace Thomas’s actions, but exceed them. It all comes from the Spirit, Thomas reminds us, and for us who practice what he taught, it all starts with the Prayer.

* Susan Komis, the Regional Representative for Contemplative Outreach who was on Thomas’s leadership team for over 15 years repeated this to our chapter and in several conversations in the past. 

The Welcoming Prayer Practice invites us to notice and surrender to the experience we are having that “hooks” our sense of threat around security, esteem, or power.  We can sense when we are “clenched” (when our brain and heart get off track) and when we “allow” the entraining of brain and heart. . . . The Somatic Skills help us experience the wisdom of the body, which both alarms us and regulates us.  The skills allow us to trust and partner with our bodies to increase our openness for pain and for love without staying engaged in the story.

The Welcoming Prayer Practice begins with FOCUS and SINK IN, inviting us to deepen into the sensations in our bodies and to pay attention to what it feels like on the inside, staying present to what is, not changing anything. Every emotion can be felt as the energy of sensation. . . . The Somatic Skills teach us how to track and notice sensation in our bodies, how to cultivate the language of sensation, how to ground ourselves in the present moment, and how to resource ourselves when overwhelmed physically or emotionally.

The Welcoming Prayer Practice teaches us to WELCOME or be with what is happening, to have an inner attitude of hospitality.  It invites us to allow and be open to what is in this moment, now.  It points us toward a window of opportunity where the cycle of the story — arousal and activation — can be broken or released by staying present from a deep witnessing place, balancing and entraining with our nervous system. . . . The Somatic Skills remind us we are hard wired for compassion, both with ourselves and with others. The skills teach us ways to resource ourselves, self soothe, and regulate our physical responses so that we can be receptive to the higher vibrations of Wisdom and grace, the finer energies of Love.  This impacts the field of our relationships and communities.

The Welcoming Prayer Practice invites us to LET GO, but not too quickly, not before spending whatever amount of time is needed with focusing and welcoming.  When we don’t hurry the process, this last stage is more organic, like a dissolving. . . . The Somatic Skills build confidence in us, showing us how to “shift and stay,” literally moving our attention back and forth between the edge of being overwhelmed and the ease that is in our body, waiting to resource us and help us allow our experience, no matter how long it goes on — abiding in the midst of the storms.  With this confidence, our nervous system sometimes releases, freeing blocked energy, and we naturally take a deeper breath as we re-set.

As we engage with the activities of daily life we find that we are able to re-create our circumstances as we learn to shift the energy previously expended in being reactive into an expanded reality, using our more spacious Being. 

Cynthia also gave us a beautiful reflection on her longtime teacher and friend Thomas Keating — an insightful appreciation of his legacy. This was the most moving part of the day for me. I loved the modest optimism of her take on what Thomas’s life meant and will continue to mean. “Who are we?” she asked, and by way of suggesting an answer, she challenged us – as followers of Thomas and would-be contemplatives – to allow ourselves to be transformed, knowing that human transformation is the path to a better, more compassionate world.

Throughout the day, we also heard lovely original songs based on early Quaker writings, composed and performed by Paulette Meier. Many joined in singing these short verses, adding further to the deep spiritual resonance of the day.

Looking back after two weeks, I feel we should be very grateful to Cynthia and Paulette for making the effort to visit us and for taking us on a memorable spiritual journey.  Their impact was so great that it’s hard to believe it all took place during one single day of peace and solidarity in one large room near Chicago.

(Incidentally, this year’s Fall Workshop was originally scheduled for November 3 but had to be delayed by one day to give Cynthia the chance to participate in Thomas Keating’s funeral. Quite a few people who had planned to attend had to cancel their registrations due to scheduling conflicts, and we apologize to them for the unavoidable last-minute change.  Nevertheless, more than 350 people participated in the Fall Workshop, the largest group to attend a Contemplative Outreach Chicago event since Father Thomas visited us in 2003.)

Visit Cynthia’s Bourgeault’s website. 

It seems I have not slept, but I must have drifted off because finally I am aware of waking. This time I wake not from the cold but because of the daylight; the dawn sun comes through my tarp. Through the tarp’s opening it hits my face in that way it only does in high altitudes with thin air. The sun is so bright, but I cannot call it warm. My skin is freezing while at the same moment individual cells are seared by the sun, as if under a heat lamp. With the sun comes a glint of hope from out of the bleak night of this frozen wilderness.

As the sunlight takes a bit of the bitterness off the cold, I do what still can be done from under my sleeping quilt. There’s no gear to pack other than my sandwich-sized plastic baggie with fire making items. I wear everything else or I lay on top of or under it. So, in my sparse nest, I turn my electronics on and check for messages. My cell phone has no service, as it hasn’t for two weeks. My transponder though, using satellites for brief text messages to my wife as the preset contact, has a few she’s relayed that came in overnight:

– A county sheriff is covering for the ranger, who is off duty for the weekend. Sheriff Dan asks how I am and whether I want SAR (Search and Rescue). I emphasize that I have no injuries. I decline SAR with a mixture of embarrassment that I may really need rescue, concern for cost, and the lack of any drastic and imminent threat that I can admit.

– The sheriff next points out that in these conditions I could fall through snow-covered water. I hadn’t thought of that. Yes, or break a leg on boulders hidden under snow, or tumble on a small avalanche, even get hit with a big avalanche.

– He wants to know if I’m injured, again.

– I reply “I’m fine, I just can’t see the trail through the new snow, and it’s hard to keep from freezing at night.” Later I find that this thought did not cause as much consternation for me as it did for Sheriff Dan, though it probably should have.

Having sent my messages, I quickly eat my cold snacks, and soften my frozen shoes by massaging them so they soften enough to put on. Putting on pants that feel like frozen cardboard is particularly uncomfortable. Ironically the ice that penetrates my pants is an upgrade compared to the below-zero air temp. Unlike the last few days, I don’t hesitate to get out from under the tarp. The dense down quilt is not providing enough warmth today anyway, and I want to save my one fuel tab. I know that moving strenuously is the best way to thaw my inner organs. Each muscle and sinew cracks in the same way my shoes’ uppers and laces crack so they may soften enough to function. I stumble and fumble around in my fatigued, cold state—and I am just starting out.

I am low on food, and low on fuel. There will be only a six-minute single burn above tree line tonight, if that is as far as I get.  No trees mean no wood to burn at what may be the still colder, higher elevation. Yet the siren call of the mountain draws me up again. The mountain, a metaphor for the worthy challenge, brings you up higher, closer to heaven, and for me today, closer to home.  After over a hundred miles hiking, the summit is only one mile away. If I make it, it will be the longest mile. I have travelled less than a quarter mile an hour lately, but I think the summit is reachable, and beyond that it is literally all downhill and only four more miles to my car. The bright blue day, which should warm into the mildness of the mid-teens, lends encouragement and surprising optimism.  After stuffing my tarp and quilt in my bag, I text that I cannot wait. I will need every moment of daylight.

Admittedly, though, the sight of the mountains I need to pass through is daunting. In addition to the glacial cold and snow that I must push through, as I have for the last couple days, it is much steeper. A roughly 30% grade. (In comparison the Pacific Crest Trail tries to never exceed 15 %, and 6% is considered the limit for automobile highways.) Steepness means even more effort, but worse is the lack of any visible trail. I saw yesterday how I can wander for hours unsure of where I am while the snow erases signs of any path. Off trail I could hit almost unclimbable snowy steepness, or a host of serious terrain problems. I have no footwear or devices to keep me from sliding down slopes of a hundred feet or more.  If injured I would be hard to find and extract. By tonight I’ll either run out of food or start rationing it. This could become a death spiral, as food calories are literally a measure of heat. Less food means both less body warmth and less energy to move.  All this passes through my mind in a moment, but thinking about all it while daylight is wasting won’t help. I have my pack on, the blue sky and nearby mountain call; I am about to take the first steps.

Admittedly, though, the sight of the mountains I need to pass through is daunting. In addition to the glacial cold and snow that I must push through, as I have for the last couple days, it is much steeper. Steepness means even more effort, but worse is the lack of any visible trail. I saw yesterday how I can wander for hours unsure of where I am while the snow erases signs of any path. Off trail I could hit almost unclimbable snowy steepness, or a host of serious terrain problems. I have no footwear or devices to keep me from sliding down slopes of a hundred feet or more.  If injured I would be hard to find and extract. By tonight I’ll either run out of food or start rationing it. This could become a death spiral, as food calories are literally a measure of heat. Less food means less energy to move and less heat means more need to move.  All this passes through my mind in a moment, but thinking about it while daylight is wasting won’t help. I have my pack on, the blue sky and nearby mountain call; I am about to take the first steps.

– Wait, “Stay put, a helicopter is coming…” comes the reply text.

That last message I sent, when I admitted I can’t see the trail nor keep from freezing (which in retrospect was more of a prayer) was all the sheriff needed to make a decision on his own. I can hardly believe what I’m seeing on my screen. A single set of footprints would be enough, a mule would be a godsend, a helicopter is absurdly extravagant.  Had I been texted that I won the lottery it would have been more believable, and less elating. Everything changes.

If this is true, I need not concern myself with another day of walking with blocks of ice as feet, of searching for an invisible path, of known and unknown dangers. Yet for the briefest moment I hesitate to accept the help. Why cause danger to the rescuers, and cost to whomever, when I have no broken bones and am so close… This thought is indeed brief, the sheer relief of such a drastic change in my fortune cannot be declined. I pace in a small circle in this pristine whitewashed wilderness, aware of the incongruity of a whirlybird coming here, wondering how a noisy machine can breech such a sentinel of solitude. I text a confirmation, let them know I have this red jacket on (I don’t like bright clothes but I’m glad I got this on-sale color, which will help me be seen today). They say it’ll be an hour.

Trying to make it as easy as possible for the pilot to see me, I stamp out a large H with my feet in the snow on a small, flat, open area. I mean to write Helicopter, or Help, but there’s not enough room, and I am stepping into some water in spots underneath, hidden under snow, a reminder of how stupid it would have been to try to make it out myself. I leave the letter H only, stamping out a large circle around it, so it looks like the sign we had at the hospital where I chaplained, and this is now my version of a helicopter landing pad. I don’t know if it’s usable but assume the pilot will know, nor do I know if I’ll be hoisted out with a rope, but I expect they’ll at least see my mark. (I only found out later that steps in snow do not create enough contrast, I should have put down some cut brush or something as a circle).

For the first time in more than two days, I now have time.  I don’t have to use every moment to make critical progress or get desperate rest. I sit on my pack and do Centering Prayer. Out of respect and awe for the mountain that defeated me, I face it. The movement of stamping out the “H” and the warmth coming today (it makes it up to 18 degrees) have warmed me enough to meditate for 20 minutes and more without moving or freezing. The setting is gorgeous, the challenging mountains and valleys, the crystal clear, bright blue sky; there’s no wind, no scent to smell, silence. Gratitude fills my heart for all that has been and all that will be. I become overjoyed.

The last two weeks have given me the most glorious, continuous taste of the divine I’d ever had. I had equated much of this euphoria to my time spent Centering and to the lack of man-made diversions. There were so few people and almost no man-made objects. The only vehicles I had seen were on the small road I crossed at Tuolumne Meadows, and they seemed, even there, an anomaly hardly worth noting.

Now, I hear the chopping of helicopter blades filling the valley, a shiny speck sails over the peaks toward me. I have a new perspective: Man-made, noisy machines are…fantastic! Thank you pilot, for your skill and for entering this sacred space to save a life. Thank you engineers, for designing this magical bird, thank you mechanics, steel factories, oil wells, government services… all this and more was needed for this moment to happen. Thank you all of mankind, you are a crucial part of this natural world! You are integral to Gaia, part of the whole organism of earth. You saved me!

Almost saved, I should say. Having seen too many movies where the rescuer misses the victim, I want to be sure I am spotted. The helicopter is getting larger but is not clearly headed to me.  I get up, arms stretched out and spin-dance, hoping my bright red jacket catches the sun and they see me or my Circle H in the clearing. The great machine hovers briefly, high above me, then lets loose it’s siren for a second. The same sound as a patrol car siren – the copter is from the California Highway Patrol.  My ears hear sounds familiar back home in Chicago, but I’m still freezing my butt off in the Sierras. They see me!  Whatever comes next is in their hands and I’m fine with that. They are the ones with a helicopter, radio, and expertise. I’m the knucklehead with a thin red jacket on in the subfreezing wilderness.

They don’t drop a rescue rope and harness, or give me any other signals, in fact they don’t do anything helpful. They fly off. They fly over a drop off into a lower valley, out of sight. I’m concerned a bit, but soon they fly back. The gleaming, wing-spinning bird is low now, snow billowing off the ground from the blades, causing a small local blizzard. They are going to use my Circle H landing pad.

Ever so gently they descend; the last five feet they drop with a door open, the co-pilot/medic sticking his head out in the way someone might look at the curb while backing into a tight parking space. They test the snow to see if it will hold them. Touchdown. The medic exits and gives me a hand signal to keep me from racing under the spinning blades. The clenched fist held up with the arm in a 90-degree angle. Good thing I have seen those hand signals in action movies, I laugh to myself. The din of the engine’s whine is noisy to hear. He wastes no movement as he clears emergency gear out of a space in the back of the helicopter to make room for me to sit on the floor. He motions me in. I trudge through the snow to the open back door and throw my backpack in. Per his pantomime I sit back onto the floor behind the two crew seats and slide back in, then cross my legs in a half lotus position for the flight back.

In a moment, he’s back in with the pilot, they’re secured and take off. The whole landing-to-take-off seemed less than one minute long. Everything is so incongruous to my last days. We sputter above the snow-shrouded mountains effortlessly. A moment ago the peak seemed indominable.  Banking steeply we curve past the two gorgeous mountain lakes I saw coming in. After three frozen days of hell, the ascent out is ecstatic, ethereal.  The two crewmembers speak to each other briefly through their headsets and apparently to someone over their radio. The medic shouts back to me “Are you OK, do you need medical help?” “No, I’m fine, I just need to get to my dry socks.” Then, realizing what is happening and that they can actually hear me over the din of the blades, I shout the loudest and most sincere “Thank you” I have ever uttered. I am dumbstruck at the change in my situation.

In moments we clear the summit which would have taken at least a day of hiking. We descend to the town of Bridgeport. The deep winter scene I just left is gone; below is the lush, green, warm beauty one would expect on the first day after summer’s end in the Sierras. Not a sign of snow. We fly over the small houses and shops, a weathered ancient redwood barn, an otherwise tidy, newer town. Down we go toward a small airport with a sheriff’s car parked just off the runway. We land right next to an aviation fuel tank.

The pilot – he tells me his name is Jason – is relaxed now and turns out to be quite amiable. He gets some needed facts from me for his paperwork (the State often debates whether to cut funding for this help). The medic, Brandon, is already refueling the chopper, I don’t know what to say.  They are in the middle of their work day and clearly want to get back. My feeble “thank yous” seem so inadequate.

Their assistance has not ended. Sheriff Dan offers to drive me the 15 miles to my car now. He is the one who monitored me overnight and sent the messages. He is the one who made the decision to get me out. Sheriff Dan has moved here from southern California years ago for this job and a better place to raise his family. I ask if he backpacks into the wilderness and he says “Naw, I pull too many people out of trouble there to want to go in myself.” He lets me use his cell to call my wife, who is surprised and glad to hear me. I let her know I’m fine, she gives me a brief update of home, and we say we’ll talk more when I’m in my own cell service range.

In more ways than one, life at 60 mph is much faster than 0.6 mph.  I’m soon in my car, socks changed, and driving to Los Angeles, where I’ll be on an airplane tomorrow, heading home. Listening to Springsteen on the car radio, I pass Mt Whitney, the highest point in all the attached United States. The end of the John Muir trail.  I have no desire to prove I can climb it.  Stopping at a wonderful Mexican restaurant, I enjoy a sit-down meal of steak tacos, running water in a real bathroom. Conveniences galore, but I somehow already feel out of place. Or maybe we all just feel more at home in nature.

I have cell service now, which I discover by receiving my first call. It’s from the Sheriff’s office. A woman there wants to debrief me for their records. I tell her I feel bad to have put them all through that effort. I say, “I’m pretty sure I could have made those last few miles.” Her reply: “That’s what we sometimes hear from folks who no one ever hears from again.”

It hits me between the eyes. I did need help, I was not in control.  Days later, I talk to my friend who’s spent months in the wild. “Even if you made it, you would then think you could take on an even more challenging situation, till you eventually don’t make it out at all. It may be best that you were beaten by this and that you now know to ask for help.” When we win at enough in life, our ego can fool us into thinking we can beat anything.  This lesson of how helpless we all are in the face of nature, of God, is one of the best lessons in my life. Letting go, “dying before we die” as the mystical saint Rabia says, dying to my stubborn egoic views of myself, frees me so the rest of my life can expand. Or to put it as simply as Clint Eastwood does in Heartbreak Ridge, “A man’s got to know his limitations.”

There is no lesson worth learning that the wilderness cannot ingrain in you.

In the mirror of my low-end motel, a face that I haven’t seen in weeks looks back. Now shaggy and weather-beaten, it is the face of a man still aware of who he really is. I hope I won’t have to lose him. I do not quite blend in here. The thermostat intrigues me–the weather in LA needs no human tweaking. The bed is welcome but too squishy, I cannot touch the earth. The walls block the breeze and view. The ceiling hides my friend Orion. Everything is so convenient. So many unreal things; and these are only the outward signs of change. I fear I will be ruined by all this again somehow.

I fly home to family, seemingly travelling at warp-speed and into another world, to my wife, daughters, son-in-law and grandson. We have a nice meal on our deck on a beautiful, warm sunny day. We were so glad for each other that day.

It has been a year now since my hike through the Range of Light.  After returning, I at first I had an unreasoned fear of cold.  Not a discomfort from cold, but a real fear of it. I have mostly gotten over that by undertaking a dogsled camping trip with Outward Bound last winter. There I learned how to be protected from the deep cold (My mom was right, even a plastic bread-wrapper over my feet would have helped—we used a simple heavier version of a bread-wrapper in Outward Bound). That dogsled expedition allowed me to get over the needless fright and keep my love of backpacking.  I’ve had a few short trips by foot and one by canoe this year. My feet still have some numbness or extra tingling in spots but that has not been a problem at all. Remembering the frozen times can still be troubling, as it should be. Remembering the overall experience and lessons is a great gift.

There is no separation between the beauty of nature and its danger; between the enchantment of snow-covered mountains and their ability to kill you. To see nature as metaphor only or reality only is to discredit both metaphor and reality. Nature, like all of life, is not one thing or the other, not just tangible or just spiritual, it is not even two or three things at once. Nature is everything, all the time. It is non-dual, not one and yet not two either. As Christians, we see Jesus as the ultimate non-dual person. To call him only divine or only human would be to minimize both divinity and humanity. We have, under our feet, not only in the mountains but covering the completeness of the world, proof that the divine and the material are always here, inseparable.

No more shall men call you “Forsaken,”

or your land “Desolate,”

but you shall be called “My delight,”

and your land “Espoused.”

For the Lord delights in you,

And makes your land his spouse.

– Isaiah 62:4

© 2018 Phillip Jackson