Mountain Top

One of our sons, the outdoor adventure guy, wrote to offer to lead us on a backpacking trip into the Grand Canyon. My Muse and I were floored. First of all, we were floored that one of the kids would want to do something like that with us—after all, we are their parents not their BFFs. Then we noted that we haven’t done anything like that before (at least not together), so we immediately began to wonder if we are actually still able to do such a thing. Adventure Guy argued that we are still doing half marathons, so surely we would be able to do this. For some reason, this argument sounded plausible, so we bought in to it and agreed. Yes, the half marathon distance is similar (actually greater than what the planned canyon trip would require), but I don’t usually do a half wearing a big pack or those damn boots.

We may not be experienced or have the skills needed to do multi-day hikes (or the equipment), but we are smart enough to realize that different muscles will be used, so we found a friend who would show us some of the local trails. We have also heard that the Grand Canyon involves some up and down, but we are lucky to have a mountain in our back yard, so we figured that up followed by down might suffice as training for down followed by up. We haven’t proven that yet, but I still believe it.

We started bravely, once a week, an hour up hill and then an hour down. It worked pretty well for the first couple of weeks. We’re tolerating the booPhoto Apr 29, 10:18:55 (HDR)ts but carrying only light packs—we’ll get to more weight than just 4 pounds of water, but we have time. Then our friend took off with her husband for a real hike—3 weeks on the Camino de Santiago in Spain—and we are suddenly on our own. We’ve used the excuse of busy schedules to explain why we are waiting for her return.

We haven’t gone as far as the mountain top. That would be about 3000 more feet of up, but we have certainly gone far enough to see why people get hooked on this. There is a feeling of altered reality up there that is hard to describe. In this picture, the “civilization” we came from is not quite visible at the bottom of the mountain. It was a little hazy or dusty on this day, but it is really much clearer than the picture would suggest—the next mountain west (the picture faces southwest) is just out of the picture to the right, 80 miles away. It would be clearly visible if the camera had been pointed in the right direction. The mountain is beautiful, and, most especially, it is not the city. You can experience it alone, even with other people around you.

I had a similar experience decades ago sailing off of Los Angeles. When you get a mile off shore, the city is beautiful, but you can’t hear it, and you can’t smell it. You can be alone on the ocean even when in the company of other boats. What a glorious experience.

So, much more than conditioning is happening as I walk up and down this mountain. I feel the silence. I see and feel the beauty of the world. The cares of life fall away. The pressures of our civilized world do not reach here, and I find I can love people again (as a whole) when I’m not constantly reminded of the senseless things we do to each other. My mind fills with loving kindness, and I can feel it begin to pervade the space around me (read this to understand the reference).

I am not of the generation that wants to measure and document every detail of my life. I am often content to absorb what is happening around me and weave it into my story. I don’t need to conquer the mountain, and I won’t have a need to conquer the Canyon. I won’t preserve everything I see in either pictures or words, but I will see it all and I will bring back stories, some of which I will relate. I might even relate some of them to Adventure Guy, just in case he didn’t see the right things. The Canyon, at least, will be full of loving kindness when I leave.

Silence

A few days ago, Victo Dolore published Étude to Silence. It fit my emotional state exceedingly well since I had just returned from a trip that embodied silence in several forms. This post is a few variations on the theme of silence.

Victo and several commenters talked about being alone in the car and being uncomfortable with the silence that occurs when you don’t have your usual distractions–the children, the radio, music from your phone, or whatever. On the surface, to my literal little mind, given the actual meaning of the word “silence” as being without sound, this is a strange interpretation, since the car is a pretty noisy environment. But, it isn’t a lack of sound that produces the “silence,” it is the lack of distractions. The background noise in the car doesn’t count. We don’t hear that, and if we don’t hear it, it isn’t there. Without distractions, we are in silence.

I live and work at home in a variant of the silence of the car. There is no radio or tv in my workspace, no music from a computer player or Pandora; there is only fan noise from lots of computer equipment. But, mostly, I don’t hear that. I don’t listen to it, and if I don’t listen to it, it isn’t there. Then, there is the tinnitus. I don’t listen to that either, so I work in silence. For me, this “silence” is the best work environment. I could not work with audio distractions because it would be––distracting. When I play music, I find myself listening to it.

Last Saturday, the men’s ensemble I sing with performed a concert at Ghost Ranch in northern New Mexico. Ghost Ranch is remote: 15 miles from the nearest village or small town; an hour or more from anything you could describe as a city. A place of great beauty and great silence–no cell phone coverage with my carrier; no road noise; a noisy airplane 35,000 feet away every few days. At night there is no visual noise from city lights, and you can see so many more stars than in the city. One of the great beauties of the earth available only in silence.

One of the pieces we sang was Loving Kindness by Stephen Paulus. It is a setting of a text adapted from the Digha Nikaya that begins “Put away all your hindrances, let your mind full of loving kindness pervade one quarter of the world…” You can read the text here. This is not a prescription for passive contemplation–these are acts that can only be accomplished with effort in an environment of silence.

Sunday morning we sang at a Benedictine monastery that observes the rule of silence. It is completely off the grid, 15 miles off the paved road on the side of a river valley in a place that is amazingly beautiful. They have a small church–20 visitors at their Sunday morning mass is a crowd. Our ensemble sang after the completion of the mass in a room so filled with smoke from the incense that you could barely see across it. The result was a sublime interruption of the monks’ normal silence. Combined with the surpassing beauty of the location and the chill of the spring morning, it was a perfect experience breaking the silence in just the right way. For the monks, it is a small break in the silence–not an end to it. It allows the monks to return to the silence with greater appreciation.

So, here are a few variations on the theme that highlight silence as something to be sought, rather than something to be avoided. Let the silence itself direct you to beauty. Let your mind fill with loving kindness.