moving us toward something right, something good.”
After lunch we split up to enjoy the solitude and solace of Little Bear Lake on our own. In keeping with the theme of circumspection and observance for this trip, I poked around the large White Bear Rock next to camp, examining its interesting details and taking many imaginary photographs. Sometimes a camera is superfluous, and the best images are those remembered in the mind’s eye. In a day of memorable discoveries, the lake had one more trick up its sleeve. The path to the lake from our camp led past the upslope of the rock from which we normally ascended directly to the top. Just a few feet off this path was a small “corkscrew tree” I had noticed before when walking past to get water. At first glance, it seemed to be just one of the many gnarled outcasts of the forest, trying to eke out a living in an exposed spot. When I reached the base of this modest 15-foot Ponderosa pine, I could see the reason for its struggle. Many seasons ago, its seed had fallen in a crack at the base of the great rock, probably as a chipmunk tore up a pine cone.
As I admired the tenacity and fortitude of this tree’s trunk, I could see that its main root extended down about 4 feet to the ground, filling the crack inside which it had traveled. Rough bark, like that on the trunk, had covered the root where it was exposed along the seam. This determined root had swelled to almost the diameter of the main trunk, which was only about 4 inches. I peered closer to more fully appreciate the leverage being exerted on the large boulder, and noticed what at first seemed to be an optical illusion: the edges of the rock were actually curled around the root, embracing it in a few degrees of curvature. The visual effect suggested that while the root was expanding and forcing the crack wider, the stone had grown itself around the root to resist the force! I had to look from many different angles to verify what I was seeing. This couldn’t be – rocks don’t grow; they erode! No matter how I looked, I could not disprove my first impression. The root was not swelling and bulging out from a flat-sided crack like caulk in a seam; it was being lovingly encased in the granite as it distended, the way a cut heals in the skin.
I said a silent prayer for the steadfastness of this specimen, whose initial obstacle had become a symbiotic support system. I knew well that I was overreacting emotionally. The pathos was completely understandable (to me), for I had foolishly attempted suicide earlier that summer, just before graduating from High School. I could identify with a survivor. Chris was the only one who knew, that on the night of my Senior Prom, I took a whole bottle of sleeping pills, laid down in the cab of my truck, and didn’t care if I woke up. This irrational, vainglorious finale was prompted by the repudiation of the most beautiful girl in school (not just my opinion – she was voted as such). I actually thought we had a relationship that was moving from friendship to intimacy. When she went to the prom with another guy (a shallow basketball star), my heart was crushed to granite dust. Throughout my adolescence, I had driven myself to desperation for want of an intimate relationship, but I’d never really had a girlfriend in my life. I fancied myself an unrequited exception to the shallow, amateur love-lust typical of teenagers, but the years have given me perspective (along with a loving wife), and now I realize I was just selfish. The only reason I didn’t die was because I didn’t have enough money for the larger size bottle of sleeping pills, so I bought the smaller one. If I was really a hopeless, brokenhearted desperado of love, I would have shoplifted the larger bottle and done it right!
I felt an affinity for this tree; this survivor, whose struggle to stay alive was so great that it twisted itself into the shape of a corkscrew and drilled deep into solid granite to find nourishment and consolation. With instinctive empathy, I traced the edges of the interface of bark and rock, so tight that a knife blade could not be inserted. I wanted to feel the power of a love so tough and yet receptive that it embraced the agent of its destruction. I said a silent prayer for all of us: tree, rock, and man, as we struggled to find a place in this world.
For me, this trip to Little Bear Lake was intended to be a time of recovery and rejuvenation of the spirit. That’s one reason why I insisted on staying four days in one place, instead of packing up and traveling on to the next destination each morning as my father had done. The slower, contemplative pace had already done wonders for my outlook on life, and I was feeling the transformative balm of the mountains. No longer did I feel like an intruder or conqueror – I was part of the energy and affection of this intimate little basin; as much as the water, trees, and rocks. Every stone, every wave, every whispering needle seemed to be nodding its head at me; exchanging pleasantries like friendly neighbors on a bright, sunny day. It was impossible not to feel an overpowering warmth and affection in that setting, as the afternoon sun made the lake glow with the luster of blue and green stained glass, with drizzled gold icing on the waves. I settled on a broad, flat part of the rock next to my new friend, and gazed deeply into the soul of the wilderness.
This soon became a staring contest, as the countless faces in the opposite rock wall lovingly contemplated my existence. Truly, words are inadequate to describe the living, shifting personality of the great north wall of Little Bear Lake. Soaring 800 feet above the water level, it was composed of a labyrinth of accessible stepped granite ledges, cracks, and sheer cliffs like so much of the topography. However, the personally intimate qualities of the outcroppings were a sheer delight to behold. Each small granite shelf seemed to be an entry in a landscape contest at the elves’ county fair. Everywhere were delightful specimens of miniature hemlocks with quaintly curved tips, bushy red and green manzanita, and delicate succulents arranged in perfect harmony with the spacing and colors of the granite. Endless shades of indigo, gray, and lavender eye shadow adorned the spirit legion, whose countenances shifted and winked in the sunlight. The living rock wall displayed a great coliseum full of ancient igneous spectators, all watching me expectantly and adoringly, as if I had just walked out on stage as the star of the show.
In my thoughts I asked my audience, “Why do we fight so hard to stay alive?” The menagerie of considerate, stony faces merely waited patiently for my rhetoric to develop. “I mean, what’s the problem with dying? At least, the struggle is over and you don’t have to worry about it anymore.” I shifted my butt on the rough stage where I was seated, and wished for something softer than granite or wood to sit on. The faces waited. “See this tree here? It’s busting its ass to stay alive, and for what? So it can die where no seeds can ever take hold?”
The energy that replied to me was communicated by something other than thought. It was the language behind cognition; the pulsing nervous system of the cosmos. “The expression of life is the creative force of the Universe in an expansion of unconditional love.” This is how I interpreted the energy as best I could with my wounded, disconsolate soul.
“If that’s true,” and I knew it was true as I was saying it, “Then why does it have to hurt do damn much?” I felt the bump on my head from the roof of the cave, which was throbbing under the rough bandana bandage I had tied around it. I thought of all the physical and emotional pains already experienced in my young life, and squirmed uncomfortably on the rock.
Some small puffy clouds had edged their way from the east into the patch of sky over the lake, and were drifting their shadows vertically up the wall. This added to the pensive, vibrantly compassionate energy that seemed to be radiating from everywhere at once. Needing a focal point to gain perspective on this remarkable exchange, I addressed the largest, most distinct face in the granite. “I mean, if this is the expansion of love, why is there pain? Why do we have to die if life is love?”
I knew I was arguing in the hypothetic, and not really thinking I wanted to die at that moment, when the sun was gleaming so beautifully and the breeze herded an agreeable flock of clouds over the fence of the north rim. Again, I was captivated by the intimacy and accommodation of the landscape as it interacted with my soundless emotional suffering. The rocks, trees, water, and sky around me all seemed to be breathing in unison with a subtle force of collective affection, encircling, supporting, and embracing me. I could feel the rhythm of my heartbeat as the birth and death of stars, and my lungs inhaled and exhaled with the ceaseless expansion and contraction of the Universe. I had my answer without thinking: Life is the expansion of pure love, and death is the contraction of impurity in endless progression of creation; for all eternity.
The answer continued: Each life is ordained to live as much as it can, for as long as it can. In this way the Universe efficiently collects impurities in its vacuum. When the life form dies, the impurities contract and dissipate with the subatomic particles of matter, and the purity is restored as released energy to be recycled in other life forms. Our base thoughts, the prideful self-awareness of the ego that makes us human, are like dust particles trapped in a cosmic filter Our purest thoughts add to the beauty and utility of the Universe, while our dirty thoughts are composted and made useful. The purity of love is beyond thought; beyond the inherent limitations of rationality. It is only when we are free of the limitations of physical form that our souls can fully experience the relentless, uncompromising affection that unifies all existence. The endless cycles of life and death are the driving force behind the rhythm of the stars, and are ultimately a service to the Universe, or God if you want to give it another name. I sighed in resignation, and knew I was collecting a lot of dirt.
The lights slowly dimmed as our little amphitheater rotated away from the sun on this strange, unique, and magnificent blue marble of water and rock that is our planet. The Little Bear Lake basin was zooming towards twilight at over 800 miles per hour, and the rock on which I was sitting was hurtling through space almost 100 times faster than that, and I hung on for dear life
You Had to Be There
The lake is as wide as my mind and as deep as my soul;
cool treasure shimmering with silver coins;
the currency of my forgotten faith and healing heart.
A powerful calmness gently hushes my pretension,
soothing scars of forsaken memories,
cell by cell, patiently comforting the fears of a child.
The gallery of a thousand silent, stony faces,
dripping springs of ecstatic approval;
weeping with gratitude for the exchange of love, and I,
A particle of light dancing in an exploding star,
a wave of hopeful virtue folding on the shore;
vital witness to the miracle of the evermore.
Feeling the forgiveness in the heart of this instant;
eyes streaming from the stillness of the air;
ears ringing from the deafening sound of crashing pretenses.
Tall trees whisper their heartbeat of love beyond measure,
urging me to secure and manifest this treasure,
to share with others and appropriately enrich them with pleasure.
Each of us someday returns to this familiar landscape,
to shed the chrysalis of needful delusion,
and celebrate the miraculous unfolding of the present.
~
there is a field. I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase ‘each other’ doesn’t make any sense.”
— Rumi