R. Mark Liebenow's Blog: Nature, Grief, and Laughter, page 13

Grace of Community

Perhaps in no other season are people as aware of what is missing in their lives. In December we look for signs of hope, renewal, faith, and affirmation that the struggles we are in are worth the trouble.
In the midst of celebrating, we see people who are suffering, who are poorly dressed for winter, who are hungry, who are alone, and we try to help, because something reminds us that we are members of the same community.
December is also when much of the natural world in the northern hemisphere goes into hibernation. There is grace in this, in the letting go of what is past, in the retreating from active life and preparing for spring, and grace in the slower movements of the season. We think of people we had to let go, and in this holiday season we are reminded again and again of how much we miss them. We think of our own mortality. We think of the sources of energy for our life, what inspires us, and we feel the pull to live what we believe in everything we do.My background is in Christianity, and what follows comes from people and examples I know. May they guide you in thinking about people in your own tradition.
Kerry hikes the Santiago de Compostela in Spain and finds what she thought was lost.
Brother Lawrence washes dishes in a hospital kitchen in Paris. When he gets home, he answers letters from people struggling with grief.
Beth goes each day to L’Arche in Toronto where she helps the developmentally challenged get through another day. 
Catholic Workers in Chicago gather food to feed the hungry as well as provide spiritual nourishment.
Ann collects blankets and coats and hands them to people who are trying to stay warm on Oakland’s cold streets. 
Alone in her hut in the woods, Catherine prays and fasts for other people. It is a place where she exists in solitude and explores the desert of her heart, a place she calls poustinia.
In the Sierra Nevada Mountains in California, 3000-year-old Giant Sequoias stand quietly in the snow, under stars moving across the wonder of the night sky, watching as they have since before the baby was first foretold.
Nothing happens at Christmas, except the birth of hope. I feel this when I look up at the stars in the depths of the night sky, whether I’m standing in the mountains at Glacier Point, on the shore at Bodega Bay looking over the Pacific Ocean, or waiting in my backyard and listening for what I can do to bring hope into the world.
We come together during the holidays, and we feel the grace of community when we slow down to help one another. 

Early December Evening

The evenings in early December are quiet, the earth shaded in the pastel colors of the sky, the darkness moving across the earth lengthening into night. Nature settles down into the blues and grays of somber winter.
I stand on my deck and listen to the woods — the creaking of the trees in the light wind, the clicking of black sunflower shells landing on the ground, dropped by wrens and finches at the feeder. My thoughts drift among the trees and follow the squirrels as they chase each other over the snow. Dusk fills the woods with shadows and enough presence that discernment on my part is not needed, only openness to the mystery of what this is.
The mystery of what this is. That is what I need to feel again. The presence of Eternal. I need to get lost in this.If a specific feeling should rise inside me, that would be all right. I would accept it and reflect on it. And if this quietness should bring back a forgotten memory, or an insight into something that once seemed impenetrable, that would be okay, too, and I would let it sink into me. But I don’t need anything to happen tonight. The presence is enough.
The silence of the woods, the sparkling of the stars overhead, the slow journey of the earth through the dark blue and silent cosmos, remind me of Sigurd Olson and the words he wrote from his listening point on the shore of Lake Superior:
The movement of a canoe is like a reed in the wind. Silence is part of it, and the sounds of lapping water, bird songs, and wind in the trees. It is part of the medium through which it floats, the sky, the water, the shore.
In a few days, people will begin walking the streets of my neighborhood caroling of hope and joy. Houses will fill with revelers and lights glow from every decorated window. Holiday parties will overheat and people will open the back doors and come out onto their decks to cool down. They will find themselves listening, drawn into the quiet celebration of the woods.

Snow Falling Along the Merced River

adapted from Mountains of Light
Snow begins falling while I'm sitting by the river that winds its way through the middle of Yosemite Valley. Birds splashing in the water along its edges don't seem to notice, although some begin to play with a little more excitement. The large flakes quickly change the landscape, covering the rocks and trees, the granite domes and mountains, and unifying everything in a blanket of white. 
My thoughts turn to the Ahwanechee who used to live in this valley. Did Chief Tenaya's people gather inside their shelters during heavy snowstorms to share stories, traditions, and tribal concerns? Or did they go out and play?
Black Hawk, chief of the Sauk and Fox, spoke of this sense of community:
We always had plenty; our children never cried from hunger, neither were our people in want. ... The rapids of Rock River furnished us with an abundance of excellent fish, and the land being very fertile, never failed to produce good crops of corn, beans, pumpkins, and squashes. ... Here our village stood for more than a hundred years in the Mississippi Valley. Our village was healthy and there were no better hunting grounds.
The call of a Steller’s jay brings me back to the storm. I must have been thinking for some time because now I'm covered with two inches of snow.

Yosemite in Winter

from Mountains of Light
Rising from my sleeping bag, I crawl out of my tent and head for the frosted meadow. The sun is just peeking over Glacier Point and lights up the bare granite rock of North Dome and the meadows below with a warm yellow glow. In Cook’s Meadow, acorn woodpeckers hop up the trunks of dead trees, picking out acorns they stored there in the fall. By Sentinel Bridge, three young bucks hang out looking for trouble, their breaths coming out in small white puffs. 
The quiet, crystalline beauty of a winter dawn in the mountains fills my eyes, my heart, my soul with awe.
The crow in a nearby tree makes a gurgle noise repeatedly. It's a funny sound, and each time the crow caws, its tail goes down. By Swinging Bridge, a square chunk of light gray granite that was washed downstream by the spring flood, now sits on the edge of a reflecting pool of emerald green. A white lace of ice edges the banks of the calm, meandering Merced River; its tranquil water reflects the early blue of the young morning sky. An ouzel flies up near me and dances in the rapids flowing over a two-foot-stretch of pebbles.   Taking a physical inventory, I find that my only warm place is in the small of my back. It’s seriously cold today, and the moist air near the river penetrates my protective gear. Shivering, I adjust my clothing trying to get warmer but without success, and head to the cafeteria for a hot breakfast. Then it's back outside to see more of the valley in this early light. Later in the morning I duck into Degnan's for hot coffee. At noon I heat up soup.
When the sun reaches camp, it’s finally warm enough to take off one layer of clothing. After hours of shivering, my body relaxes into the hours of the day and I head off on today’s hike.

Invocation of Trees

The trees, naked of leaves now in the woods behind the house, stand proud and hold their strong bodies up to the sky, raising their arms up in thankfulness to Creation for the year that is ending, raising their arms up in prayer, praise, and celebration.
The birch trees twirl in the wind like whirling Sufis, reuniting heaven and earth. The pine trees, heavy with snow, scatter their resinous incense on the air with bowed heads and open hands. The oak trees spread their arms to the side, feeding the animals their acorns, and protecting the people with their stout branches and trunks. 
As we notice, so are we blessed.

Frost

There have been frost warnings the last two days, not that I’ve paid much attention because we did not plant a vegetable garden this year. But the news sank in and I realized this morning, as I looked into the intricate green lace of the woods behind the house, that soon it would all be gone. Half of the leaves have already turned and fallen. One solid freeze and the remaining green would turn yellow overnight. Then, with any kind of wind, all the yellow leaves would drop, leaving the brown and bare trees sticking up on the hill in the sun.
Poet Edward Hirsch spoke of the change of seasons this way:  We suddenly “feel something invisible and weightless. … It is the changing light of fall falling on us.”
Perhaps I should wake up each morning excited to see what will be different today, instead of wanting everything to be the same.

Falling Leaves

My neighbor Jackie stopped in and exclaimed how beautiful the yellow leaves were on the maple tree in my backyard. I downplayed it and said that she should have been here a week ago when all the trees were vibrant with fall colors. Then I turned and saw the yellow filling up the entire window and I was stunned. Knowing how much was gone, I no longer saw what was still here.
When leaves drop in autumn, I am sad for the loss of all the life that has buzzed, flown, grown, and trotted through the woods. Colors become muted, trees go bare, and a chill clings to the air. I turn away from the windows thinking that life has ended outside and there is nothing more to see. Yet when the leaves are gone, I will be able see deer moving down by the creek, a barred owl sitting on a branch, feel the contours of the land, and watch the sunset’s rays moving through the bare trees.
I do not like dying. I became used to the glory of summer and do not want it to end. The coming of autumn is a time of transition, when I learn to let go of what has been and start to prepare for what is coming.

Harvest

Driving through the Illinois countryside last week, I realized how happy I was seeing the golden cornfields being harvested, the soybeans turning from green to yellow and rust, the warm sun shining in a deep blue sky with a cool breeze touched with hints of autumn’s crispness. The new crop of apples were being picked at Tanner’s Orchard, and everything looked, smelled, and sounded as if the season, and the year, had reached the fullness of life, what we have been working for since spring.
As I helped Jim and Peggy on their organic farm, shucking and sorting the ancient Oaxacan green corn, I gave thanks for how good it felt to be outdoors and physically active in a world of such variety and beauty. The crop was larger than anticipated because the deer and raccoons hadn’t found it. I rejoiced in getting my hands dirty and celebrated the harvest being brought in, as people have done with corn for thousands of years. We celebrate many events throughout the year. Some are personal, some cultural or religious, and some are national. Many have their origins in the changes of the seasons as people sought to be on good terms with the powers of the natural world, to honor nature and to give it thanks. In autumn we renew our spiritual rootedness in the earth, feel the delicacy of life on the breeze, and realize that some lives will now end among the plants and animals, while other lives will continue on.
What we do today goes deeper than simply bringing the harvest in before the cold and snow of winter arrive. There are reasons why we feel so alive outdoors, and why we feel so vulnerable. Autumn reminds us that we are part of the earth, and that we’re not the ones in control. We need to be reminded of this now and then.
Today I feel these physical connections of being nourished and fed by the earth, by its food and by its spirit. There is a sense of coming home. I am still a child of Mother Earth, even though I live in the city. At harvest I remember to return to her table to honor and give her thanks.

At a Wandering Pace

I remembered a John Muir quote incorrectly. I thought he said that nothing could be seen of nature when we’re moving at 40 miles an hour because everything becomes a bewildering blur. 
When people arrive in Yosemite today, after driving 60-70 miles an hour for four hours across the Central Valley, up through the foothills of the Sierra Nevada and into the valley, they do tend to stagger out of their cars dazed. At those speeds, the landscape has been a blur. Trees flash by the windows as we focus on staying on the winding road. We would be able to see much more if we slowed down to 40, but Muir didn’t think this is enough. 
I thought Muir was berating people who arrived in the valley by stagecoach, zipping over the new dirt roads, or taking the train to El Portal at the breakneck speed of 40 miles an hour instead of taking their time by riding horses over trails. Muir himself took things even slower by taking several weeks to walk the 200 miles from Oakland. (Wendell Berry wrote an insightful essay on adjusting to the pace of the nature in “An Entrance to the Woods.”) Yesterday I ran across this quote again. It doesn’t say 40 miles an hour.  What the quote really says is 40 miles A DAY. 
Harkening back to my time as a Boy Scout, I know that a good hiking pace is 4 miles an hour over gently rolling terrain. Ten hours at this pace would make a full day. You can see a great deal more of nature going 4 miles an hour rather than 40.
Yet even at this pace, if you keep to it hour after hour, especially in the mountains, you have no time to explore what is around you, what catches your eye. You can’t investigate the open patch of sunlight 100 yards off to the side in the forest, or check out the sound of running water to see if it’s a creek, a waterfall, or a pool that would be ideal for cooling your hot feet. If you are trying to get somewhere, moving at 4 miles an hour, hour after hour, you are still moving too fast to experience the landscape you’re traveling through.
So where does this leave us?
When you find yourself outdoors in a beautiful place, take your time. Savor what is there. Do not hurry on to get to some place else. Do you want to experience the transcendence of nature or get to some destination? Linger in places that get your attention. Stay in the moment until it’s over, and then go on to the next. This is also important for what we do in the rest of our lives, like taking time in the conversations we have with others and letting them deepen.
Life is not a linear experience. Our goal is not to get from here to there, with the there being death. Life is a collection of experiences we have along the trail, places where we linger and explore, places that we come to cherish.
Not all who wander are lost. — Tolkien

Getting Close to Nature

Yosemite Valley is a place of solitude, a place I go to make sense of the tragedies and horrors going on in the world.
Before dawn, I stand by the river to get a feel of its movement through the valley, then head off on a hike through the wild beauty of Creation. After a day of walking meditations with the mountains, the listening conferences at the waterfalls, and the conversations with chipmunks on trails through the forest, I return in the evening to the river. I sit with the day’s experiences and discover the threads that tie them together.
Looking at the bottom of the river in front of me, I see seven dark rocks in a line and a series of the light-colored sand ridges on the bottom like a sand garden in Kyoto, with flowing water replacing the movement of the air. The ridges and the different colors of pebbles on the bottom create patterns that occupy my mind while my spirit is free to wander.
A boulder rises above the surface of the water, and I can see its entire being because the peacefulness of the river allows it. I know that the flow of the river is strong, but I barely perceive the undulations on its surface, and see nothing of the boulder’s struggle to hold its position in the riverbed. So it is with people.


The surprising response is the one I need to pay attention to because it comes from an unknown place, a place not controlled by me. It calls me out of myself and into a relationship with nature. It calls me into intimacy. It feels like there is no boundary between nature and me. I open myself to it and share all my thoughts and feelings, as well as the longing that rises from somewhere deep within. Like the I-Thou relationship, I hold nothing back and try to set my preconceptions about nature aside so that I may fully understand. Yet I sense that there is much before me that I do not perceive.
The day spent hiking has been the prelude to this moment. All day the feeling has been growing that I am experiencing more than just the beauty of the wilderness. I feel the valley’s presence around me. Everywhere I look glimpses and sparks of wonder surprise me. Overwhelmed, I close my eyes, lean back, and let this presence soak in. I listen to the thrum of the mountains, and feel the power of the river as it flows on and nourishes the world.
As the sun begins setting on the other side of the mountains, the valley disappears into darkness. I let my thoughts rise and drift among the wonder of the stars.