R. Mark Liebenow's Blog: Nature, Grief, and Laughter, page 7

Being Spiritual Outdoors

When people talk about spirituality, a number of standard terms are used that have different meanings for different people. We have our own preferences, of course. Some terms we bristle at, because of bad experiences in the past, while others we cozy up to like old friends. Each term covers a huge amount of territory with many nuances.
In regards to what we actually mean, we also use many of the terms interchangeably. So don’t get hung up on a term. What we are seeking is connection to the deeper reality, a numinous experience. Substitute the term that has meaning for you.

            *
Mindfulnessis camping in the wilderness, rising at dawn, and listening to the air, the trees, and the birds wake up as we cook breakfast over a fire.
Prayer is a conversation we have with the mountains and rivers, with the ravens and coyotes. We open ourselves to nature, and listen for the presence of the Other in the landscape. As we do, our perceptions about ourselves and the world deepen. We watch the everyday life of the outdoors, and grow in compassionfor all creatures.
Awareness is an adventure. On the trail, we don’t know what we will find around the next bend. We might encounter a a mountain lion or a mother bear with her cubs, and need to quietly, and slowly, back away. The trail may also take us to a stunning view over a river canyon that leaves us slack-jawed with awe.
Insights of contemplation come like the touch of a cool breeze on our forehead on a hot day when we’re hiking up the steep ridge behind North Dome at 8400 feet.
Awe is feeling the Creator walk by in a massive rainstorm that sweeps through the valley with rumbling thunder and flashes of lightning.
As we hike into unknown territory, we trust the Spirit to guide us where we need to go. We travel with holy intention on a search that may take years, yet we are mindful that this beauty is not our destination. And yet, we know that in this moment there is this beauty, and it is to be taken in and celebrated.
Mindfulnessis a journey; it’s also our companion along the way.
Prayer is being aware of the pine seedling rising through the humus on the ground.

Gratefulnessis watching the alpenglow on white granite mountains deepen from red to purple, stars appear that travel overhead, and being thankful for our pilgrimage through the depths of the Cosmos, for being part of what will be and what has been.

Sequoias

(from a visit a few years ago)
Leaving my car at the entrance of the Mariposa Grove of giant sequoias, I walk slowly through the deep snow and let the silence of the grove wrap around me, moving from one giant tree to the next. I place my hand on the thick red bark of one and feel its endurance.
Beneath my feet, its roots connect to the roots of the other trees in the grove, and I feel the strength of community. Leaning back, I marvel at the dimensions of a giant sequoia. In its canopy, an ecosystem of life exists, far above the visible life I see from the forest floor.
I feel insignificant here, and imagine how dwarfed I’d look in a photograph. These 3000-year-old elders of the mountains hold centuries of memories in their branches. In the quietness of the afternoon, I feel the presence of shared wisdom.

John Muir wished that sequoia juice could run in his veins, and he wrote in his notebook using sequoia juice. When he lived in these mountains, Muir said, “I only went out for a walk and finally concluded to stay out till sundown, for going out, I found, was really going in.”
I linger by a creek and listen to it trickle through the grove. Birds hop over the snow looking for food. What would an intense fire do to my life? Would I be destroyed or strong enough to begin a new life?

At the end of this glorious winter day, the sun is also reluctant to leave. The light blue sky intensifies to a glowing orange that deepens to red, fades to pink, and then releases into the cobalt blue of night. Constellations of stars emerge and string the branches overhead with twinkling lights.

Nature As Revelation

John Burroughs wanted people to go outside and enjoy the nature that existed around them wherever they lived, whether this was farmland, forest, ocean, desert, or a city park. He was concerned that people were staying indoors too much.
He wrote this in the late 1800s.
I think he’d be more concerned today, because we drive, rather than walk, to the local grocery, if we still have a local grocery. New housing developments often don’t have sidewalks. Most of our houses don’t have porches for sitting and chatting with neighbors walking by. We don’t linger after dinner to watch the sun set over the trees, or see the moon rise. Our children don’t go outside to play, and many are afraid of being alone in the woods.

Nature as the backdrop for our activities.We use the outdoors as a place for getting exercise — hiking, riding bikes, canoeing, playing baseball, soccer, golf, or skiing. Most of us need the exercise, so this is good, but we often neglect to pause in our activities and observe what nature is doing around us. Were there deer present, or a stream? What color were the birds?
Nature as scienceSome of us like to spend hours figuring out how nature works. We look at it analytically, pulling out guide books to identify trees, plants, and birds. We pick up rocks and try to decide if the glaciers left them. We take measurements of air and water to record matters dealing with global warming, mega-farm pollution, the effects of fracking, and the disappearance of the bees. We view nature is a living laboratory.
Nature as therapyNature is a place where we go to get away, unwind, relax. We feel renewed by the fresh air, the unhurried pace, and the quietness of the outdoors. We let our minds wander where they want, reclaim forgotten dreams, and discover insights. When we return home, we are energized.
Nature as inspirationIn places like our national parks, preserved because of their outstanding scenery, we are inspired by the dramatic beauty and the diversity of life to take the next step in our lives. We’re fill with ideas. Sometimes we see lightning flash off the tops of mountains during thunderstorms, and tiny trout swim under the ice in the river.
Nature as spiritualSome of us feel spiritual outdoors, as if we were seeing the untouched remnants of Creation. We’re aware of a greater power around us, and sometimes we feel awe. We look for transcendence outside because we need to be reminded that we are part of something greater than our individual, city-bound lives.
Nature as relationshipWe can develop a relationship with nature through any of these activities. We can also make having a relationship with nature the focus of our being outside, rising with the sun and going to bed when it sets. We interact with each season differently, and treat nature as a friend instead of an adversary. It was only after John Muir forgot his plant press one day that he was forced to look at Yosemite as a whole, and felt a personal connection that he nurtured for the rest of his life.
The journey into nature is also a journey inside. Go into nature and discover who you are.

When we let ourselves love nature, we care what happens to it.

Shoveling Snow

The world is quiet this morning after the snowstorm. The city feels cloaked and protected by snow.
Sounds outside are muffled.
Furnaces come on, and curls of steam and smoke rise from every snow-clad roof in the neighborhood. It looks like we’re living in a small village and everyone is cooking breakfast on wood stoves.
Black tree trunks and branches brush haiku across the white paper landscape.
Dawn arrives clear and cold. The rising sun sends yellow rays through the blue air that make the land glow. The frozen world sparkles. My boots creak and crunch on the snow as I shovel a path from the house to the road.
People emerge from their homes to shovel, and blink at the brightness of the white land. We wave to each other, talk about how this is a good snow, not a wet snow that would make our backs ache, but a snow with enough weight on the shovel that we know we’re doing work. There is fellowship among those who shovel snow.
A male cardinal flies up to the feeder; its red seems impossibly rich.
Bundled in a thick winter coat, I pause in my shoveling to listen to this place, to the stillness of heart in the presence of snow.

River Teeth - Beautiful Things essay

"Waiting for Owls." micro nonfiction. Read it in 2 sips of coffee.

http://www.riverteethjournal.com/blog/2016/02/08/waiting-for-owls-

Doing Nothing, Just Sitting In the Woods

Some days, when’s a lull between the usual rush of activities, I don’t know what to do. I’m restless and look around for something productive to work on. Then I see the woods.
In midwinter, the woods in central Illinois are bare and brown. The sky is generally gray, and on most days there isn’t enough sun to satisfy my cat. Without leaves in the way, I can see a mile over to the next hill where there are more brown trees. Brown doesn’t interest me much. I prefer green.

Everything around me seems to be frozen or missing, as if all mobile wildlife has packed its bags and traveled south for the winter. Those without feet or wings have pulled back underground, back to their roots. When I look closer, I see a patchwork of life thriving.
The trees and bushes are several shades of brown, and the dry leaves that paper the ground are a spectrum of muted colors — brown, of course, but also red, yellow, purple, and a surprising blue. Large rocks have an assortment of lichen in yellow, gray, black, orange and sage green.
There are also signs of death. Several trees have limbs that have lost their bark, and the snowstorm a month ago left a wake of damage. Several trees toppled over from the heavy weight of snow on their branches, leaving their roots exposed. One tree was simply snapped in half fifty feet up.
The breeze, with a hint of warmth, flows up along the hollow of the creek bed. Squirrels emerge to dig for acorns. White-breasted nuthatches hop up tree trunks, and a red-tailed hawk circles overhead, watching the ground for movement.
A crow caws from my left. A response comes from the other direction, and a laid-back conversation begins as each crow thinks about something witty to say before responding.
The last time I was here, several deer followed each other along the ridge.
There is a spirit to these woods; a presence I feel inside that calms my anxiety.

I shouldn’t wait for a lull in my schedule to come here, because this is where my heart and imagination are rooted. Everything I do needs to rise from this.

Yosemite in Winter

from Mountains of Light
Rising from my sleeping bag, I crawl out of the tent to take a dawn hike around the frosted meadows for an hour or so. The sun peeks over Glacier Point and lights up the bare granite rock of North Dome and the meadow 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 are hanging out looking for trouble; their snorts come out in white puffs. 

It’s probably in the mid-30s on the valley floor, at 4000 feet in elevation. On the trails that go along the rim of the valley, at 8000 feet, it’s likely to be ten degrees colder.
A crow in a nearby tree makes a gurgle noise. 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 surge of the spring flood, now sits on the edge of a reflecting pool of emerald green.
Ice edges the meandering Merced River in white lace. Its tranquil water reflects the blue of the early morning sky. An ouzel flies up 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 because the moist air near the river is penetrating my coat. I adjust my clothing and try to get warm 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 I duck into Degnan's for hot coffee. At noon I heat up soup over my campfire.
When the sun reaches Camp 4 at noon, it’s warm enough to take off one layer of clothing. After hours of shivering, my body finally relaxes.

I head off on a longer hike to see what other surprises are waiting.

Invocation of Trees

The trees, now naked of leaves, stand proud in the woods behind my house. They hold their strong bodies against the cold and rise up to the sky, rise up with their arms open in thankfulness to Creation for the year that has been, rise up in reflection and praise.
The birch trees twirl in the breeze with open hands like whirling Sufis, reuniting heaven and earth. The pine and fir trees, heavy with snow, bow their heads and scatter their resinous incense on the air. The oak trees feed acorns to the squirrels who have slept in, and protect nuthatches and wrens with their stout branches. 

We slow down, turn inward, and search for guidance to renew our tired hearts and minds. We become trees and return to our roots. Some of us will read books looking for inspiration, as well as momentary escape. Some will cook stews and soups, bake cinnamon bread and fruit pies. Some will sit by the window with a hot cup of oolong or peach tea and write down all the thoughts that have followed them this year wanting more of their attention.

Each morning we rise again and are greeted by the trees, our companions. We feel the turning of the world, and smell the cold scents of wet bark and earth. We watch red-tailed hawks and ravens glide through the sky, and feel our spirits soar.

Zero

Before dawn it’s zero degrees outside.  
Zero, as if there was no temperature outside. Nothing is moving, no animals or birds, not even the wind. I stand motionless in the dark, not wanting to ruffle the stillness that is holding my part of the world.
The frozen sun rises crystalline and pink on the horizon, shifts to a light canary yellow that fades as the sun warms the air to eight degrees. 
Some would say it’s bitter cold. I call it refreshing. Bitter starts at minus 20. I’m from Wisconsin. Yet when I breathe in, it feels like my lungs get prickly.
Hidden in the stiff, unmoving trees, is the unseen longing of leaves tucked deep inside the wood waiting for spring. Beneath the snow, mice, voles and our neighborhood woodchuck sleeps.  

Squirrels emerge from the warmth of their hidden nests, knock snow off the branches that sparkles in the crisp sunlight as it drifts to the ground.
Zero is also the door between the living and the dead. A synapse. A pause. Which way will this day turn? Some things will die today. Some things will be born.
I look for a sign, as if this stunning scenery wasn’t enough, and listen for words whispered by the snow or the woods, some transcendent message attached to this vision that I can carry with me as I warm to the day.
But I think this is it. The message today is this. I exist only in THIS moment. If I fail to notice it, it ceases to exist and disappears. But if I pay attention to it, then it is born and becomes a reality, a presence that grows and becomes part of me.

Sometimes nature surrounds me with such beauty that I hesitate to breathe for fear of disturbing it. Sometimes the insights are small, like looking down and finding the footprints of a bird in the snow around my feet.

Winter Canticle

Primordial turn of Earth.Snow.Solitude with stone.
Light rises,            travels below the south ridge.Cold lingers             on the shadow side of the valley.Fleeting moments of warmth midday.
            to this season’s voice.To this aliveness.To this.
Snow covers the mountains.Deer nibble at the ground.Squirrels and Stellar’s jays scold             for no apparent reason.Each creature listens            for enlightenment.
Night settles into the meadow.Moon rises over the far ridge.Coyote trots over buried trails,            over memories of summer,listening
            to winter sing in the pines.