14 June 14
"I've got all day." My mantra for slowing down and waking up. Something in me needs to be healed of the compulsion to focus on finishing as quickly and efficiently as possible. This mantra helps me look around and opens up the possibility of delight. Which is my newly forming identity/name: Unhurried>Delighted
Life is full of induced meandering, it is the way by which we are led to surprising outcomes (aka gifts), as opposed to predictable ones.
"I've got all day," is also helpful for those inevitable times that feel like trudging uphill on an oppressively hot day. "I'll get there when I get there." And, "It will get done when it gets done." Are also helpful variations.
Someone wrote that when it comes to nature, you don't really see it for the first time until you see it fifty times. I remembered this line when watching a painter at one of the many scenic overlooks at Bryce Canyon. She was set up for hours of looking and looking and looking again as she tried to put on canvas something of what was there before her. All the while dozens or hundreds of people drove up shot a few pictures for later enjoyment and got back in their cars to drive off to the next scene.
I know very well the thrill of seeing a spectacular vista for the first time, and I like to take pictures, but in this time when I'm being invited to slow down and wake up, the image of the painter struck me as a symbol of mature presence. Running from one scenic outlook to another is a kind of pornography as compared to the mindful noticing of the layers of beauty hidden behind the curtain of familiarity.
Father's Day 15 June 14
Last full day of my solo adventure.
I was worried about the forecast of another hot day, which would have been all right while I was in the shady narrow canyon they refer to as "The Narrows," but disheartening in the late afternoon and evening. (Don't feel like doing much and it's hard to sleep.)
But then in the night the wind started to blow, startling me awake several times with the adrenaline rush of fear that the tent stakes, barely grounded in gravel and hard soil, would up root, toppling the thin nylon barrier that separates me from exposure.
The wind is still blowing cold. So walking through the 50° water up river in The Narrows is not currently a part of my plans. And hiking along the precipice of Angels Landing where it's windy even when the valley floor is calm is also out of the question. Packing up and leaving early is an option. From the sound of it this is what a lot of my camp neighbors are doing.
For now I plan to stay put, to remain in my cell and let it teach me. The raucous flapping of the tent walls reminds me of scenes of high mountain trekkers riding out a sudden storm. I admit that the drama of it appeals to me. For now...
I feel myself to be in the hands of a much less predictable God on this Sunday morning than the one that I experience on a typical Sabbath, and it is strangely invigorating. Part of my prayer for this solitary retreat into natural beauty and the discomforts of camping was to loosen my attachment to my own physical comfort and immerse myself in an environment that is much larger than me -- an environment that is indifferent to my ego. I want to learn from nature, to grow in indifference to my comfort.
I asked a Ranger about what it's like hiking up river in the narrow canyon on a windy day. Turns out that it's mostly protected from the wind and that the river itself is running quite low so I should be okay with the light clothes that I brought a long as long as I'm careful not to stumble and fall into the water. Now I'm eager to go, but it's expected to be hot after all, so I should take advantage of the cooler morning and return to class. My cell is waiting to teach me. After all, I've got all day... no need to rush into anything.
16 June 14
16 is the number clipped to the post of my camp site, the last day of my reservation, the morning that I am expected to pack up and leave. Parting really is a sweet sorrow, even if the trip hasn't been easy or fulfilled expectations. Today my only plan is to be deliberate, unhurried, to open to delight, surprise, to live in the spaciousness of not knowing.
I like that, The spaciousness of not knowing. So often rather than accepting the reality that what is next, what is best, is not clear, I make a hurried decision and act. Man of action, okay, not a bad way, circumstances and consequences can teach. But I am beginning to imagine another way, not in opposition to a life of action, but rather a deliberate, unhurried awareness which acknowledges the spaciousness of not knowing and accepts the beneficial reality of "induced meandering."
It's possible, for example to have an agenda like packing up camp and leaving by 11 am, (fulfilling my obligations, in other words), while leaving open the possibility of surprise, even wonder. It's like making room for spirit, which is an ongoing hidden reality, like dark matter, which deepens and thickens experience, but it can be missed, is often missed.
A life defined by fulfilling one duty after another until retirement is considered admirable, but sad. It's a thin life, a shadow life. I'm imagining a way of living that is deliberate and open to spontaneity, aware of obligations, but seeing the bigger picture, placing duties in context, and so, free to move without stress, ever awake to whatever might be a more important activity. All the while fulfilling obligations in a timely manner.
I think that what I am imagining is what Rilke means by, "living everything." Maybe it's what Goethe meant when he wrote, "Do not hurry, do not rest." I like rest, but maybe it's not as necessary when you are unhurried.
Not just getting things done and moving on to the next thing, but living through each thing. Not just doing, but living.
Instead of, Just Do It
Just Live It
After one last restful hour of sitting by the Virgin River, I felt as if the invitation to slow down and open to surprise was confirmed. As I walked from the river to where my car was packed and waiting for the long drive back to the congestion, competitiveness, and ugliness of city life, I looked around at the cotton woods and up to the colorful canyon walls and began to weep for the sheer, gratuitous beauty of it all. If I had been in my usual get it done, get on my way mindset, I certainly would not have had this deeply connected, humbling experience.
God help me open to the spaciousness of not knowing even as I return to my familiar environment.
"I've got all day." My mantra for slowing down and waking up. Something in me needs to be healed of the compulsion to focus on finishing as quickly and efficiently as possible. This mantra helps me look around and opens up the possibility of delight. Which is my newly forming identity/name: Unhurried>Delighted
Life is full of induced meandering, it is the way by which we are led to surprising outcomes (aka gifts), as opposed to predictable ones.
"I've got all day," is also helpful for those inevitable times that feel like trudging uphill on an oppressively hot day. "I'll get there when I get there." And, "It will get done when it gets done." Are also helpful variations.
Someone wrote that when it comes to nature, you don't really see it for the first time until you see it fifty times. I remembered this line when watching a painter at one of the many scenic overlooks at Bryce Canyon. She was set up for hours of looking and looking and looking again as she tried to put on canvas something of what was there before her. All the while dozens or hundreds of people drove up shot a few pictures for later enjoyment and got back in their cars to drive off to the next scene.
I know very well the thrill of seeing a spectacular vista for the first time, and I like to take pictures, but in this time when I'm being invited to slow down and wake up, the image of the painter struck me as a symbol of mature presence. Running from one scenic outlook to another is a kind of pornography as compared to the mindful noticing of the layers of beauty hidden behind the curtain of familiarity.
Father's Day 15 June 14
Last full day of my solo adventure.
I was worried about the forecast of another hot day, which would have been all right while I was in the shady narrow canyon they refer to as "The Narrows," but disheartening in the late afternoon and evening. (Don't feel like doing much and it's hard to sleep.)
But then in the night the wind started to blow, startling me awake several times with the adrenaline rush of fear that the tent stakes, barely grounded in gravel and hard soil, would up root, toppling the thin nylon barrier that separates me from exposure.
The wind is still blowing cold. So walking through the 50° water up river in The Narrows is not currently a part of my plans. And hiking along the precipice of Angels Landing where it's windy even when the valley floor is calm is also out of the question. Packing up and leaving early is an option. From the sound of it this is what a lot of my camp neighbors are doing.
For now I plan to stay put, to remain in my cell and let it teach me. The raucous flapping of the tent walls reminds me of scenes of high mountain trekkers riding out a sudden storm. I admit that the drama of it appeals to me. For now...
I feel myself to be in the hands of a much less predictable God on this Sunday morning than the one that I experience on a typical Sabbath, and it is strangely invigorating. Part of my prayer for this solitary retreat into natural beauty and the discomforts of camping was to loosen my attachment to my own physical comfort and immerse myself in an environment that is much larger than me -- an environment that is indifferent to my ego. I want to learn from nature, to grow in indifference to my comfort.
I asked a Ranger about what it's like hiking up river in the narrow canyon on a windy day. Turns out that it's mostly protected from the wind and that the river itself is running quite low so I should be okay with the light clothes that I brought a long as long as I'm careful not to stumble and fall into the water. Now I'm eager to go, but it's expected to be hot after all, so I should take advantage of the cooler morning and return to class. My cell is waiting to teach me. After all, I've got all day... no need to rush into anything.
16 June 14
16 is the number clipped to the post of my camp site, the last day of my reservation, the morning that I am expected to pack up and leave. Parting really is a sweet sorrow, even if the trip hasn't been easy or fulfilled expectations. Today my only plan is to be deliberate, unhurried, to open to delight, surprise, to live in the spaciousness of not knowing.
I like that, The spaciousness of not knowing. So often rather than accepting the reality that what is next, what is best, is not clear, I make a hurried decision and act. Man of action, okay, not a bad way, circumstances and consequences can teach. But I am beginning to imagine another way, not in opposition to a life of action, but rather a deliberate, unhurried awareness which acknowledges the spaciousness of not knowing and accepts the beneficial reality of "induced meandering."
It's possible, for example to have an agenda like packing up camp and leaving by 11 am, (fulfilling my obligations, in other words), while leaving open the possibility of surprise, even wonder. It's like making room for spirit, which is an ongoing hidden reality, like dark matter, which deepens and thickens experience, but it can be missed, is often missed.
A life defined by fulfilling one duty after another until retirement is considered admirable, but sad. It's a thin life, a shadow life. I'm imagining a way of living that is deliberate and open to spontaneity, aware of obligations, but seeing the bigger picture, placing duties in context, and so, free to move without stress, ever awake to whatever might be a more important activity. All the while fulfilling obligations in a timely manner.
I think that what I am imagining is what Rilke means by, "living everything." Maybe it's what Goethe meant when he wrote, "Do not hurry, do not rest." I like rest, but maybe it's not as necessary when you are unhurried.
Not just getting things done and moving on to the next thing, but living through each thing. Not just doing, but living.
Instead of, Just Do It
Just Live It
After one last restful hour of sitting by the Virgin River, I felt as if the invitation to slow down and open to surprise was confirmed. As I walked from the river to where my car was packed and waiting for the long drive back to the congestion, competitiveness, and ugliness of city life, I looked around at the cotton woods and up to the colorful canyon walls and began to weep for the sheer, gratuitous beauty of it all. If I had been in my usual get it done, get on my way mindset, I certainly would not have had this deeply connected, humbling experience.
God help me open to the spaciousness of not knowing even as I return to my familiar environment.