Moving through nature, transitioning with nature
As some of you know, I make an effort to go on some kind of retreat annually. My preference is for that to include at least some time when I can be alone with myself, out in nature, in addition to time for intensive learning. This year (and last year too, actually) I found myself in Central Oregon, in the “high desert” region near Bend. I drove down there this time, and the experience of moving through several different types of forest, of climate, and geology was profound, especially during fall – itself a transitional season, moving from the light and warmth of summer to the cold and dark of winter.
From darkness into light…
I navigated Highway 101 from Port Angeles down to Olympia, Washington in the dark and nearly in the rain. My shoulders stood perpetually on guard, around the altitude of my ears, and I questioned my judgement many times as I squinted against the bright lights of oncoming cars and the constant, unfamiliar curves in the road. On the other hand, at that hour there was little traffic behind me wanting to go faster than I was comfortable with – a small but important blessing!
After a short and poor sleep at a cheap and noisy motel, and a lot of urban sprawl past Portland, my mood matched the sky as I finally entered the Mount Hood National Forest in Oregon. It was grey with rain-heavy clouds, and the scent of smoke from wildfires was strong. I knew the mountain was there – in fact the map told me I was driving right on the southern slope of it – but my senses didn’t reflect that reality at all. Where was the nature I was so desperately seeking? Where was the view I expected? Was I stuck with a narrow view of dripping aspens (still green, no interesting fall colour yet) and mind-numbing asphalt? Where were the poetic vistas I remembered from my last trip this way?
How many times do we not see the change until it’s already happened?
Suddenly, Highway 26 dropped out of the clouds and I found myself driving along widening canyons more tan and red than green and wet. The sky seemed to lift up and it was as if the rainy morning had never been. The road was the same, the curves were as scary, and yet … now it felt like the road would get me somewhere, the curves revealed a new potential photograph every second. And there were my beloved rock formations, undulating along the roadside where only seconds earlier I had seen nothing worth noting.
It prompted me to wonder, “What changes might be happening underneath the surface, underneath my current mood or mindstate? What is acting as cloud-cover in my life right now?” Luckily for me, the very next day I got to take these questions into my Anamcara training community* and the three-day study retreat that brought me to Oregon. It’s so valuable to me to have a place (and people) who can help me to ask this kind of question in a spirit of mindful curiosity rather than judgement. It’s good to be accompanied and held while we look into the depths.
The metaphor of landscape – nature as mirror
It’s useful to ask myself sometimes, “What’s my inner landscape like today?” I can ask this question from the comfort of my desk or my bed. Sometimes the picture is dramatic: cliffs and canyons, or wild rivers. Sometimes it’s a more placid or domestic scene with meadow or lawn.
When I travel into a specific landscape, like the uniqueness of the high desert, I like to turn the question around a little. “How am I like this landscape? Where is my life dry? What is hardy or tough in me, growing despite the climate, like these junipers? Where am I like the Ponderosa pines, who thrive after forest fires? What makes up my layers, like these layers of rock that have weathered and become exposed over time? Where am I surprised by nourishment, like I was by that river at the bottom of a dry canyon?”
My hope is that these questions will bear fruit in both my work and home life. I would like to reflect some of the peace, strength, and power that I find in the desert. I would like to recognize and nurture the vulnerability in myself and others that is reflected in a landscape where it can take one hundred years to grow a layer of lichen, and where the layers built up over aeons can be suddenly upended by an earthquake, and then eroded again over more aeons back into sand.
If you feel drawn to working on some of these deeper questions yourself, in an atmosphere of acceptance and creative exploration, I’d like to invite you to contact me for a conversation. You can contact me by e-mail here: openhearthstudio.com or phone me at 250-595-0405. I am pleased to support people in person at my studio in Victoria BC, Canada, as well as by video conference call for those who live elsewhere.
*The Anamcara Project is a program of The Sacred Art of Living Center in Bend, Oregon. I am in my second year of apprenticeship. https://sacredartofliving.org/