We began walking in the gray, pre-dawn light. The air was chilly, but not cold. The sound of the creek tumbling over boulders and smaller rocks provided our hiking music. I was excited to share this magical trail with a dear friend, visiting from the coast of Alabama.
The day before, we hiked in freezing temperatures up the Bypass Trail at Kuwohi and then on to Andrews Bald. We shared deep soul conversation as we enjoyed the fir and spruce forest. This day, we were silent as we began the ascent. That silence opened a doorway for complete peace to be birthed.
In the weeks leading up to the very polarized election, we were experiencing stress, anxiety, and all the other feelings that occur when democracy is at stake. The forest embraced us in its silence and soothed our ragged emotions.
At one point, we stopped and just breathed with the trees. It’s a powerful practice to do solo; however, having a soul-sister join in the mindfulness practice made it magical. Imagine if more of us practiced breathing together…add the trees and we’d light up the world.
Now, two days after the election, I give space for my sadness and deep grief. I think back to the stillness we found on the trail last Sunday. I know I’ll return there this weekend to walk to the top of the mountain, through the enchanted trees, seeking peace and stillness they offer. But today, I’m there in my mind, breathing with trees that remind me that in this moment, I am okay—our country is okay. One breath at a time, we’ll find our way.
I finished the ‘out’ part of my hike and was headed back. As I hiked up the trail, the smell of balsam fir trees captured me completely. A favorite moss-covered tree beckoned me to sit and be still. After five miles over some rugged terrain, it felt good to pause and listen.
I was off the trail maybe 30 feet, just enough that nobody noticed me as they hiked past. There were waves of voices that came and went, but mostly there was just the sounds of the forest…and the smell of balsam fir…and the softness of the vibrant, green moss.
As I sat there observing, I felt like a student of the trees. At one point I whispered to them, so this is what it’s like to sit and observe as people walk by without seeing you. There was something so peaceful about blending in with the trees and plants and not being noticed by anyone.
Humans often seem to be in a hurry to go and do. The trees reminded me to sit and ‘be’ without any agenda. Not even the agenda to sit and be still. At some point it felt as if I melted into the forest. Thoughts stopped. Breathing slowed. I was part of the forest.
Everything was vibrant, green, balanced.
Gradually, thoughts crept back in and I realized I was really hungry. I thanked the forest. After leaving a little offering of gratitude, I stepped out of cloak of the forest and onto the trail.
Returning to people and traffic was challenging, but I sit here hours later remembering, reliving the beauty of going into the forest.
There have been so many images and reports of horrendous destruction. Absolute unbelievable loss of property and life…and more lives will be reported lost as recovery efforts continue. Helene showed us how dangerous hurricanes can be, hundreds of miles from landfall.
It’s been challenging to wrap my brain around this happening within miles from my home. Power never went out for me, I just lost cell phone service for several days. Places near me had flooding: Bryson City, Dillsboro, and Cherokee, but none of it was serious…not compared to Waynesville, just a bit further east. Or Asheville. Spruce Pine. Crusco. Canton. Marshall. Black Mountain. Swannanoa. And so many more places. Being in the eye of the storm had definite advantages this time and the east side…the ‘bad’ side…was certainly the wrong side of the storm to be on.
I used to live in one of the hardest hit areas. Many of my friends still live there. They are suffering. Friends in Asheville…suffering. Business owners, people with missing or dead members of their family/friend group…suffering. It’s challenging to know how to deal with something of this magnitude affecting so many.
So, I’ve done the only thing I know to do to find balance: I’ve gone deeper into Nature. Last weekend, it was a hike up Kuwohi. And Thursday night, it was a drive up Kuwohi to see the aurora.
I stood outside, under a canopy of stars, and tried to stay warm in the near-freezing temperatures. The hazy red glow of the aurora and the occasional white streaks of light, kept me transfixed, completely focused on the sky.
I spent about an hour at the large parking lot and then moved my car down the mountain, little-by-little, where I would stop for half an hour or more. I’d open the moon roof and my window and prop my phone on the mirror, the side of the car, or on top of the roof and take 10 second exposures. My entire focus was on being still and receiving beauty.
One parking place had a small trickle of water dripping down the side of the mountain. I sat inside my car and felt the mountain’s presence with me. It was as if an elder was sitting with me observing the beauty, helping me stay present.
I didn’t want to drive home, but after four hours of cold, I needed to get warm. And it was midnight. But one last treat awaited me on the way home.
Bull elk had blocked the road with their sparring. They were bugling and claiming their cows as the aurora lit up the sky. Seemed sort of a perfect way to end the evening.
Beauty has helped bring me into balance. Hiking last weekend, up the By-Pass Trail to the summit, was powerful. The summit was totally covered by the clouds, but the clouds were exactly what I needed: to feel contained.
Thursday night, the sky was crystal clear so the aurora and stars…the Milky Way…helped me expand again and begin to open to beauty…to life.
Sometimes it’s difficult to embrace beauty. When we’ve seen the ugly side of life, beauty can feel overwhelming. But at some point, we need the healing effects of beauty. Because that, too, is a part of life.
How many insects are singing? It’s a holy chorus of sacred song. Wren is the soloist, chirping and trilling her morning song. Mockingbird is the diva that claims arias all her own.
We are in the embrace of the clouds, held in white moisture that breaths us as we join the day.
Orange cat perches on the wood rack, awaiting breakfast. Black dog watches for squirrels; Hound gazes into foggy woods. All of us expectant of some mystical moment that signals the start to the next phase of our day.
But for now, we breathe clouds, enjoy music of the woods, and each other’s company and the presence of delightful beings with which we share this mountain.
Image by Randy Ratliff, Hiking the Smokies FB group, not the snake I met.
A sharp, electrical buzz sounded, like a switch being flipped, about ten feet in front of my forward-moving boots. It stopped me like a stone wall. The unmistakable buzzzzzzzzz of a timber rattlesnake.
Besides fear, I could feel the power of the rattlesnake. It claimed the trail with unmistakable authority.
Image by Randy Ratliff, from Hiking the Smokies FB group, not the snake I met.
The snake’s rattle repeatedly came to mind each time I practiced chanting and singing this past week. The voice is a way we claim our personal sovereignty with unmistakable authority, just like a rattlesnake uses its ‘voice.’
A week after the encounter with the powerful rattlesnake, I was hiking on another trail and discovered a rattlesnake that had been crushed. I stood over the lifeless body, deeply saddened by the silencing of the beautiful snake’s ‘voice.’ The contrast between the electrifying buzzzzzz and the silence was profound.
