THE SACRED CENTER – Happy Places, Real and Imagined

Some years back, I was due to undergo major back surgery down at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester. To prepare myself emotionally—and, some sources claimed, physically—I looked into hypnosis. As luck would have it, my next-door office neighbor at the time was one of the preeminent experts in the world on what’s called alert hypnosis—also called self-hypnosis.

He coached me a bit and then steered me to a former colleague’s video series developed specifically for patients facing surgery.*

One of the techniques taught in the program is, after a pretty standard meditation prep, to create a special place in one’s own mind, one of peace and contentment. Then the therapist describes how to attach a sort of “switch” to instantly call up that virtual escape, bypassing all the prelims. (My switch was simply to tap together the tips of my right index finger and thumb.)

        My happy place affected, as the surgeon 
        was soon to exclaim, a remarkably quick 
        and thorough recovery. 

INCISIONS, DECISIONS
So, as they wheel me to the operating room, I trigger my escape using that cue…and there I am in the little utopia I’d created, a beautiful, isolated northwoods lakeside cabin. 

So, at least till the anesthesia sets in, there I am, moving through my structure, experiencing each space and each view, examining every detail. Some features I still love; others, I move around or swap out for different styles or colors.  

I’m convinced that my self-hypnotically-induced happy place not only helped me remain calm, but also affected, as the surgeon was soon to exclaim, a remarkably quick and thorough recovery. 

I’LL HAVE THE SHRIMP
Another fantasy escape that takes me occasionally away from the clamor of real life finds Sally and me one night on a nearly deserted Brazilian beach. (I employ this one to cheat when they take my blood pressure.) 

The Milky Way is strewn across the pitch black sky. Delicious sea breezes stir the flames of a small bonfire I’ve built. Somehow we’ve managed to bring all that wood, a blanket, some food and, of course, a jug of caipirinhas** to sip on. 

Just down the beach a hundred yards away there’s a party going on. They have their own fire and some really nice live music. The small acoustic combo performs a mellow playlist inspired by samba icons Jobim and Gilberto. 

And they’re grilling shrimp, whose inimitable garlicky aroma just happens to be wafting our way. We soak it all in, appreciating each delicious sensation as a gift.

WHERE THE HEART IS
Like those Mayo Clinic and doctor’s office diversions, some happy places are imaginary. But I have a few that are real too. 

There are the exotic ones, like some of Sally’s and my travel destinations. Like a few little towns I've visited in Latin America. And places closer to home, but which still require a bit of effort to reach. Like my beloved St. Croix River and its backwaters, where I canoe and commune with Nature.

And then there are others that require no effort at all. Places most people would consider mundane, like our own living room where we simply sit, with our sweet little mini-Schnauzer, Sylvia, listen to music and talk.

         Near or far, solitary or with someone 
         else, they’re all really the same place. 

DO NOT DISTURB
I’m sure people's happy places vary greatly, depending on our personalities and tastes. Far away or close to home; out in Nature or indoors; summoning all the senses or just vision. 

The more I ponder the idea of happy places, the clearer it becomes that, whether near or far, solitary or with someone else, they’re all really the same place. And that’s a quiet little corner of our own minds and hearts, which, with a bit of self-discipline and a little imagination, we’ve cordoned off and marked: Busy taking care of myself. Do not disturb.

How about you? I'd love to hear about the places, real or imagined, in which you escape pain and stress. Won’t you please share them in the comments below?

                                               ~      •      ~      •      ~    

* The program—on CDs—is Smooth Surgery, Rapid Recovery: A Systematic Approach, by Dr. Carol Ginandes, a health psychologist affiliated with Boston’s McLean Hospital and Harvard University.

** The caipirinha is kind of the national cocktail of Brazil. It’s simply cachaça (a white rum), fresh lime juice and sugar.

DREAMS IN HINDSIGHT – The Magic of Imagining

This morning I was standing in our kitchen, pouring cereal into a bowl. Light streamed in through the generous windows at either end of our modest townhouse, highlighting our decor’s vibrant colors.

I picked up the remote and, from across the house, tuned the stereo to my favorite jazz station.

     There would be music, HD music, not just
     in one room, but filling the entire first level.

LINE OF SIGHT
As I’m wont to do occasionally, I stepped back mentally, lifting my attention from the fruit I was about to peel to a more universal perspective. And it suddenly became quite clear: in that moment I was living out a very specific dream I’d had some 13 years ago.
 
Back then, we lived a fine little two-bedroom home in a fine little St. Paul neighborhood. Of course, it had windows on every side, but, typically for the period, the layout was broken up into distinct rooms, limiting one’s sight lines and the flow of light through the interior.

In that house, at that time, someone working in the kitchen might have turned on a table radio, or maybe an iPod, but the stereo was like two rooms away. So, without decent, space-filling music, without a real color concept for the decorating, with all the surfaces kind of old and grimy, that kitchen seemed all but lifeless.

But I could dream…and I did. I remember standing in front of that old kitchen sink one day and imagining the home I’d someday find. I pictured a bright, open space with one living area flowing seamlessly into the next; walls painted the kinds of colors Mexicans use to such delicious effect; art enlivening every unhindered vista.

There would be music, of course, HD music, not just in one room, but filling the entire first level. I wouldn’t have to walk into a different room to turn it on; it would be right there at my fingertips.

Believe it or not, I could even smell the clean, herbal scent of the liquid hand soap I’d have in the kitchen in that ideal place.

        It’s easy to take for granted that whatever
        we want we won’t want for long.

GRATEFUL FOR GRATITUDE
Well, here I was, this erstwhile feast of imagination now spread out for real right in front of me. I love it! Not just that I’d had that moment of envisioning all those years ago, but that I remembered it now so clearly.

It’s too easy—especially for those of us fortunate enough never to have experienced much need—to simply take for granted that whatever we want we won’t want for long. Somehow, it usually just shows up.

But we should acknowledge the power of a universal consciousness—we might call it God, Creator, Great Spirit, Jehovah, Allah, Brahama…whatever—to make that happen. Privileged or not, when we earnestly put our hopes, our intentions, out there and entrust them to the Universe—and are sufficiently open to actually noticing its response—they are indeed most often fulfilled.

THE SHAPE OF BREATH – Finding Form In the Abstract

I used to think of my breathing, if I was even aware of it, as a simple, one-dimensional, in-and-out exercise. Inhale…stop. Exhale…stop. And so on.

That is, until I started meditating. In meditation, relaxing completely and centering one’s presence are all about breathing. I picture each inhalation filling me, body and soul, with light, with the good, positive, healing energy of a beneficent cosmos; each exhalation, ridding me of darkness and any negative vibe.

As I visualized my breathing, I realized I was seeing my lungs as a pump. And instead of the back-and-forth cycle of those hand-held bicycle pumps we used as kids, it’s an elliptical one oriented at right angles to the plane of my chest. Half of it is actually outside my body; the other half, inside.

The in-breaths rise up and toward me, releasing their fresh, healthful air at the top of their arc; the out-breaths recede from my face and then fall away, releasing their tainted air at the bottom.

The key difference is that the motion of my virtual pump never stops, nor starts. Like a ski lift chair, the baffle swings seamlessly around a hub at each end of its cycle, in continuous motion.

  Like one big, blurry Möbius strip, consciousness
  moves from one reality to its flip side without ever
  crossing an edge.

SHAPES BETWEEN SHAPES
So what actions or thoughts in your life have shapes? Are there times when your reasoning, instead of the back-and-forth, either-or kind, becomes more circular? Are key decisions or changes kind of like old RFD routes, meeting at crossroads with stop signs? Or are they more fluid, with paths merging like they do at freeway on- and off-ramps or rotaries?

How about your spirit? If you could step back and see its expression as your higher power might, would that have shape? Are your spiritual thoughts simply linear, intellectual tellings? Or might they, by entertaining more askings, spread into forms with width and breadth?

The world’s religions celebrate many shapes: the circle, revered by many faiths, including Paganism; the triangle of the Celtic or Christian trinity; the yin-yang form in Chinese mythology. Are these just symbols like so many corporate logos? Or do they have something to do with how those beliefs actually work?

I believe in the interconnectedness of all things. What I do here and now affects everything, everyone, everywhere, for all time…and vice versa. And this belief can take on many profiles.

Depending on my state of mind—and sometimes on the number of tequilas I’ve imbibed—it might be a massive, shape-shifting amoeba-like blob; or a shape of shapes, perhaps overlapping like those on a schematic diagram to create new shapes; or one where the spaces between the shapes take on shapes of their own. It could even be like one big Möbius strip, with consciousness able to move from one reality to its flip side without ever crossing an edge.

Have I overwhelmed you with abstraction? Sorry, I guess it’s just the way this curious, helplessly creative mind works. In the end, it probably doesn’t matter in the least what shapes your breaths or thoughts take on. Though for me imagining those forms helps me appreciate concepts that would otherwise be just elusive, blurry abstractions.

What’s important is that we are at least open to seeing our consciousness, our beliefs, in fresh, new ways where each encounter we have with them is a breath of fresh air.

THE MOWER THE MERRIER

Fresh-mown grass painted on pavement by recent rains takes on new life as a bounding cottontail. Or perhaps you see something else?

BALKING THE WALK – How I’ve Let My Devotion to Nature Get "Screened" Out

I write about Nature all the time—about its countless wonders, small and large; its wise counsel in ways of patience and knowing; and its many coincidences with my brand of spirituality. I promote closer connections with Nature for everyone, especially children.

But I’m a hypocrite.

I actually don’t spend as much time outdoors as it may seem. Too often, I fall victim to the very temptation I urge others to resist: the lazy cosmopolitanism, the false presence, afforded by digital technology’s instant “connections” with people, places and information.

It started, I’m afraid, with the publication of my first book, Under the Wild Ginger; my publisher told me I had to put myself out there and promote, if not actual sales, at least a point of view that would attract like-minded readers.

              Cyberspace is a wily seductress.

But cyberspace is a wily seductress. At first the allure was something like the one I felt as a boy when, no longer fooled by that old tin-cans-and-string ruse, my fondest wish was for a real walkie- talkie. Or later when I’d spend hours with my ear pressed against the speaker of our tabletop Emerson radio, fine-tuning among the stronger signals and static for distant stations. This communicating beyond the range of my own, unelaborated ear and voice struck me as nothing short of mystical.

ILLUSTRATION: Quint Buchholz

There’s a certain boundless freedom in sending and receiving messages over untold expanses, across geographic, political and cultural boundaries. The same kind I experience during my favorite, recurring dream: being able to fly. It feels like the very essence of spiritual connection, a magical oneness with time and space and all of creation—not to mention its striking awe and envy into every onlooker.

CLAIMING MY VISION
Well, blaming the medium for its abuse is a pretty poor excuse. What first brought this line of reflection to mind for me was my wife’s and my annual sojourn in a lovely seaside town in Guerrero Mexico. Last March, the nice little TV in our villa never once blinked on.

Sure, we spent some time on our devices most days, doing some necessary work, keeping in touch with loved ones, sharing a few photos. But those times were quite limited. And, even when our minds may have been in cyberspace, physically we were still in direct contact with Nature during all our waking hours.

Even inside our villa, where there’s no wall separating us from the view over Zihuatanejo bay, delicious warm breezes waft in day and night, carrying the sounds and smells of the neighborhood and the Pacific Ocean beyond. Critters—ants, butterflies, geckos, bats and the occasional tarantula—become our constant companions. And our relationships with our Mexican friends seldom abide the quick phone call, email, or—God forbid—text. No, more folks there take the time to come calling, to spend a few minutes exchanging pleasantries and just being…well...nice.

         It’s not really the physical walls that are 
         holding me back. It’s the virtual ones.

How quickly such wonders soak into one’s skin; by the end of our stay, we were already taking this sustained communion with Nature, including these unhurried visits with people, for granted. But now, with the singular clarity of hindsight, I know why this annual month in the tropics is so restorative in so many ways.

It’s exactly what I’ve been letting slip away, bit by bit, in my life here in the “real” world: the close presence of Nature in my life every day. Paying attention, not just to a little screen, but to the countless small wonders playing out around me in real time and real space.

Now, I realize it might prove impractical here in Minnesota to remove one side of our urban townhouse and let in the air, light (and mosquitos). And winter…well, come on, this is Minnesota! But I’m thinking it’s not really the physical walls that are holding me back. It’s the virtual ones. I’ve been allowing others—content developers, marketers, fellow screen addicts…whomever—to limit what I can experience, to steer the direction and extent of my vision.

This is not what I want. Is it what you want? Don’t we have our own vision, an outlook which belongs to no one but us? Shouldn’t we be the ones deciding what will surprise and delight us, who will become our next good friend, and, in the thick of this surreal presidential election, what and whom we should fear?

       I must make time for the cure before I 
       can recover the time spent on the disease.

SEEING GENEROUSLY
Now that summer’s just beginning to yield to fall, I aim to reclaim my birthright—the birthright of every human being—my connection, my belonging, to Nature. And the way to start is to, as I like to put it, get off the screen and into the scene. Like surmounting any bad habit, this will require being thoughtful and deliberate, more disciplined in how I spend my time.

What makes it hard is that I must make time for the cure before I can recover the time spent on the disease. For example, if I’m to take a walk every morning, I’ll have to let go of the time I’m wasting on television or the Internet the night before. Or I may have to re-prioritize the short list of friends I correspond with most often, adding Nature to that inner circle.

And I most certainly will have to change my point of view. I must learn to use all my senses, not just taking in the wisdom and beauty of Nature, but giving something to the transaction too. I call it seeing generously.  It’s a mindset in which we stop trying to impose our will and way on Nature and life, instead vesting in them the power to have their way with us.

That is what we do in Mexico when we stop during our daily walks and cool off in accustomed shady spots. It is what I do when I remember to let life astound me—from those little “floaters” that punctuate my vision from the inside, to whatever horizon the weather defines that day, to the stars on a clear night, to the still-further reach of my imagination.

It is what we all must do if we want to reclaim the sacred bond with Nature that originates deep in our bones and so yearns to be honored once again.

AMBOSELI – Seeing Beyond Sight

(This is the seventh and last in a series of posts about my recent Kenya safari.)

From the Maasai Mara, we head southeast toward the last of our safari’s major wild game parks and reserves, Amboseli National Park. 

Amboseli, like the Maasai Mara, is situated in the great Rift Valley, just before it spills into Tanzania. It, too, is governed by the local Maasai community. Though only 150 square miles, a fraction of the size of the Mara, it is Kenya’s second-most-popular wild game area.

The park is distinguished by its five major swamps, oases in an otherwise arid savannah landscape. While it claims to be home of the “big five” most-sought species of African wild game, it is best known for its large herds of free-ranging elephants.

PHOTO: Wikimedia Commons

The park is also famous for its proximity to Mt. Kilimanjaro, just over the border in Tanzania. Here, the best—and luckiest—photographers capture those incredible shots of wildlife with the mountain as their backdrop.

Our base for this leg of the trip is the Sentrim Amboseli tented camp, just a few kilometers from the park entrance. As we step from our safari vans and stretch our legs, we're met by the entire staff singing us a cheery welcome song in Maa, the traditional language of the Maasai.

     Even in Eden, life cannot be taken 
     for granted. Here, awareness is a 
     matter of life and death.

ELEPHANTS RULE
During our three game drives in the park, it soon becomes evident that elephants do, indeed, thrive here. They’re everywhere, and not just in the twos and fours we’d been seeing in the other reserves, but in the scores.

Often, we see them wading, knee-deep, in the lush wetlands, where they enjoy the best of all worlds, drinking, cooling off, and grazing on the tall grasses. We smile at the dark “socks” and “pants” they wear after emerging from the water.

Amboseli’s swamps also attract other animals. We’re struck by the variety: zebra, giraffe, wildebeest, rhinoceros, hippopotamus—a glimpse, it seems, of a beautiful, serene, timeless Eden. And yet we’re reminded that, even in Eden, life cannot be taken for granted. Here, awareness is a matter of life and death.

 

And the birds. Spectacular birds of every size and shape and color. I wonder if they're jealous of the animals for all the attention they get.

Go-away Bird

Superb Starling

Hartlaub's Bustard

Crested Crane

SEEING BEYOND SIGHT
Just before setting out on our last morning game drive, I walk by myself down our camp's long dirt path to a viewing platform. There you can take in a broad sweep of acacia-dotted savannah, and, if you’re lucky, Mt. Kilimanjaro in the background. I am not; the storied mountain is hiding today behind distant clouds.

Still, I’m not about to waste the moment, so I turn to other senses to experience the great peak’s presence. I sit down on the weathered bench and let go my need to see.

     I feel close enough to the animals, 
     at times, to have been but barely 
     more predator than prey.

I close my eyes and bask in the delicious interplay of relentless equatorial sun, shreds of merciful shade from a big acacia tree, and a cool, dry breeze. I listen to the cheery banter of weaver sparrows on a branch just above.

Reaching out through that cocoon of visionless sensation, I will my mind’s eye across the miles, through the clouds, all the way to Kilimanjaro. Believing it’s there, imagining its countenance, I let the mountain into my vision even though I can’t see it.

PHOTO: Anna Langova

Here I am, half a world away from home. Not just in Africa, but in the Rift Valley, the very cradle of the human species. At some level, I know this savanna, perhaps somewhere deep in my DNA. I feel my oneness with this place, and with large, wild animals—close enough to them, at times, to have been but barely more predator than prey.

I realize there's not a single man-made sound to be heard. Not a vehicle, an airplane, an air conditioner...not even the subtle background hum and hiss anyone within earshot of a highway must endure. And in that silence, I can hear Kilimanjaro.

     The boy looks up, and, through the
     cloud of dust, meets my wistful gaze.

THE SIMPLEST SONG
As if uneasy with the lull, the gentle breeze wafts a new sound over me. It’s a child’s voice, singing. Singing in the purest, sweetest notes I’ve ever heard, joyously, accompanied only by the crystalline cling—ting-ting of a small bell.

I turn my eyes’ vision back on. There, just across the camp’s perimeter fence, a young Maasai boy, not yet old enough to have earned the full, crimson-and-blue regalia of a warrior, tends—or should I say entertains—his flock of goats as they amble off to a spot of shade for the hottest hours of the day.

At the head of the flock trots a mottled orange-and-white nanny, not much different from the others, except that, under her neck, dangles that little bell.

The boy looks up, and, through the cloud of dust, meets my wistful gaze. He stops singing. I wave, and wish now I’d not seen him. He, like the great mountain, was more beautiful in just his simple song.

HOW TO BE IN THE MOMENT – 101 Tips

TIP #92
 Imagine yourself in a critter's place.

Would you worry about the past or future if you knew you were being hunted? Could you afford not to be in the moment if you were the hunter?

Any chance you'd not feel threatened by that huge, strangely upright creature watching you?

HOW TO BE IN THE MOMENT – 101 Little Tips

 TIP #71
Play with a stick.

Feel it, peel it, smell it, scrape it, split it, bend it, break it, balance it, bite it, build it, flick it, float it, carve it, spin it or draw with it.

A young child will think a stick's about the most interesting, entertaining thing there is…until taught otherwise.

Be that child.

IN OVER YOUR HEAD – Aliens In the Water

Most of us will never get to outer space. But do you realize we can still experience an alien world, one of great mystery and wonder, where strange, legless life forms lurk; where one can float in weightless slow motion; where sound carries great distances through an atmosphere devoid of air?

Only by imagining that we're experiencing such things for the very first time can we reclaim the wonder they deserve.

Sounds pretty other-worldly, right? I guess, in a way, it's a trick question. In fact, it's just another of the many places right here on Earth that we've come to take so much for granted that we forget just how amazing they really are. Only by imagining that we're experiencing such things for the very first time can we reclaim the wonder they deserve.

The alien world I'm talking about is water. Not on top of it, where we've learned to be pretty much at home—boating, water-skiing, swimming and so on—but under the surface, immersed, beyond that lower limit of our familiar habitat.



EERIE VOICES
When I was a boy I spent my summers on the beautiful St. Croix River, which forms part of the border between Minnesota and Wisconsin. The river was our neighbor, our friend, our playground and, at times, our adversary. Every day my brother, our friends and I would spend most of our waking hours either on or in those clear-brown, tannin-stained waters.

Some of my sharpest memories of those waters are of my experiences under the surface. There I learned to escape the dunking and splash attacks of the big kids, and the jolting bites of huge black horseflies. I learned to open my eyes underwater and see, at least fuzzily, the legs of both attacker and victim. Once, while looking for clam shells on the bottom, I came face to face with the ghostly image of a huge pike, which did a piscine version of the double take before darting away.

 I came face to face with the ghostly image of a huge pike, which did a piscine version of the double take before darting away.

And the sounds. Those were perhaps the most mysterious and exotic of all the sensations in that liquid world. The muffled splashing and shouting of other swimmers penetrated from above. The high-pitched whine of an outboard motor pierced my ears, even from a boat half a mile away. Gravel ground and rattled, stirred by human feet or bottom-feeding fish.

But one sound I never did figure out was a sharp, isolated tick, like two small stones being tapped together. It was random, without any noticeable pattern, but frequent enough so I heard it every time I was underwater for more than a few seconds. What, I wonder, could possibly make that sound? Last summer, in fact, more than half a century later, it was still ticking.

I CAN FLY!

I still have never gone scuba diving, maybe because I know I'd get hooked right away. It looks so graceful, so serene. I guess the closest I've come to that experience is snorkeling in the clear waters of St. Lucia in the eastern Caribbean Windward Islands. Though I was a bit insecure about my swimming skills, I remember realizing, once I got a few feet under the surface, that this was about as close as I'd ever get to my frequent dream of being able to fly. What an incredible sensation, soaring over the colorful creatures that swayed and swam 20 or 30 feet below!

What are some of your most memorable experiences underwater? Do you recall certain sounds? Why not share them here?

AS THE WORM TURNS – Close Encounters of the Dirt Kind

Those of you who follow my work here or on my sporadic travel blog, El Viajero Contento, know I'm fascinated by how so many of life's wonders lie hidden to first glances, and how finding them takes an extra measure of curiosity, creativity and patience.

I often think of how much I learned about that kind of discovery from my maternal grandfather.

SPARKS OF INTEREST
It was Grandpa Janssen who let me sharpen his darts on the hand-powered grinding wheel in his garage. When he saw how intrigued I was with the shower of sparks, he indulged my fascination by asking me to sharpen stuff that didn't even need sharpening, like scraps of steel rod or big five-penny nails. He's the one who showed me how ants feed on the nectar that oozes from peony buds. He would pull apart a bleeding heart flower and use the various parts—resembling two pink rabbits, two white slippers, a dagger and, of course, the heart—to illustrate a little fairy tale.

But of all the wonders Grandpa helped me experience, the one that seems to best exemplify the process of discovery was hunting for night crawlers.

We were going fishing one day and needed live bait. Grandpa had a garden, so I figured it would be easy; just give me a spade and an old coffee can and let me dig around for some worms. Now maybe he feared what I'd do to his garden, or perhaps he just needed to keep me occupied for a while, but he had another plan. You can imagine how mystified I was when he said that, instead of a shovel, we'd use a hose.

I imagined the green blades and brown thatch as a Lilliputian rain forest, undergoing its annual inundation by a Lilliputian Amazon.

It was an exercise not just in discovery, but also its companions, patience and faith. Grandpa turned on a gradual flow of water and brought the business end of the hose to the middle of the small back yard where he set it down on the grass. He told me to sit down, watch and listen, and then went into the house.

SOIL SEARCHING
A ten-year-old boy doesn't have much of an attention span. It seemed like an hour before anything happened. To pass the time, I imagined the green blades and brown thatch as a Lilliputian rain forest, undergoing its annual inundation by a Lilliputian Amazon. I was thinking of how all the critters—the ants, sow bugs, centipedes and beetles—were either adapting to or fleeing the deluge.

Suddenly bubbles started popping up through the flood. Then there was a different kind of movement. At first I barely noticed it through the grass and the bright reflection of sky and clouds on the water, but night crawlers were emerging from the soil, with their distinctive "two steps forward one step back" slithering motion.

 

Parts of their mauve- to putty-colored bodies glistening with iridescent highlights of blue and red. 

Besides the now-obvious fact that these guys could drown, I learned a lot about night crawlers that day. They're fast; if you try for one before it's about two thirds of the way out of its hole, it'll duck back in before you get a grip. They're strong and brave; sometimes one will hold on so tight that it breaks in half before letting go. And they're colorful, some parts of their mauve- to putty-colored bodies glistening with iridescent highlights of blue and red.

I've never looked at night crawlers the same way since. Despite my admiration, though, I still use them for bait. How can someone who professes reverence for all of life do such a thing? I'm afraid that's a worm of a different color.

FACE IN THE ROCK – Hard Truths

The Old Man of the Dalles

In the Dalles, the scenic gorge of Minnesota's St. Croix River at Taylor's Falls, the inscrutable Old Man of the Dalles contemplates that stretch of the river as he has for 10,000 years. I wonder who first recognized him peering out of the gray basalt. Was it the Ojibwe or Dakota, for whom the distinction between man and Nature was a fine one? Was it European settlers, who may have craved any sign of humanity in such unfamiliar, unforgiving surroundings? Or might it have been just an enterprising tour boat operator, at the turn of the 20th century, looking for one more highlight to capture tourists' imaginations?

We have searched for our own reflections in Nature since we were little more than just another wild animal (one much lower on the food chain). Perhaps it was among the first indications of our impatience with that position that we could imagine seeing ourselves in rocks, trees and clouds. As human cultures advanced, so did the reach of our imagination—we were then seeing ourselves and our fates traced in the stars, those most unconvincing of connect-the-dots renderings.

Does imagining ourselves or our God reflected in Nature 
somehow bestow immortality on us as the notion of heaven does?

Native Americans and other animist peoples may have gotten it closer to right, believing not just their likenesses, but their spirits, are entwined with Nature (in both living and inanimate things). I find much to be desired in this theology. What could be more reassuring—not to mention convenient—than finding your God reflected in everything you see, all the time? I don't know about you, but to me that beats waiting till Sunday and praying to a book, a statue or a string of beads. I find both comfort and hope in my belief that we, our fellow organisms and everything else—rocks, clouds, fire and water—are all connected, all part of the same magnificent plan.

While this view of what's holy feels right for me, it still raises many questions. Have we always understood how tenuous our hold is on life? Does imagining ourselves or our God reflected in Nature somehow bestow immortality on us as the notion of heaven does? Does how we picture God influence the way we treat our fellow seekers and our natural environment?

Only by God's being unimaginable can I begin 
to understand His power.

All I know is that seeing faces or forms in the clouds is not a profound experience for me. While I respect the importance of these images to my ancient ancestors, I think my spiritual reach is actually limited by such amusements. I guess I find holiness in things that don't look like me. It's precisely because they don't look like me that they so fill me with wonder. And only by God's being unimaginable can I begin to understand His power.

Snapshots from Zihuatanejo - Apparition

Left by one wave, erased by the next, this 12-second image presented itself to me in the wet sands of Playa La Ropa, Zihuatanejo, Guerrero, Mexico. I am the only person ever to see it. What do you see?

HUNKERED DOWN – Bringing Wonder Home

It's the depth of winter here in Minnesota. Not to worry; we're hearty souls. Generally, we don't let that stop us from enjoying life, even life outdoors—which, by the way, is still full of great beauty and life.

        A person's need for discovery and wonder 
        doesn't get left at the door like the parka 
        and boots.

Nonetheless, below zero wind chills conspire with the sun's quitting at 4:30 to make us spend far more time cooped up inside than we do in the summer. Sometimes we have no choice but to hunker down for a couple of days and wait out a blizzard and the arctic deep freeze that so often follows.

But a person's need for discovery and wonder doesn't get left at the door like the parka and boots. Even indoors we're curious; our child side still needs to play, learn and experience delight.

Of course, there's always TV, a good book or the Internet to help pass the long, dark hours. But these, I submit, are remote, second-hand experiences. They may entertain or inform us, but do they nourish a curious soul?

Even indoors I'm always surprised and delighted at how many real-life, present-moment natural wonders await discovery when I'm willing to look with care. Here are just a few examples:

      Study the strokes and patterns; marvel 
      at the feathered crystalline brushwork; 
      imagine how the artist determined where 
      each element in the composition would go.

Could there be a more elegant artistic expression than the crystalline masterpieces Nature renders with water? Outdoors, of course, it’s snow; whether seen as flake or drift, it's the most sublime of sculptures. Indoors, though, relegated to the two-dimensional “canvas” of frozen glass, she once again outdoes herself.

Look closely at frost; study the strokes and patterns; marvel at the feathered crystalline brushwork; imagine how the artist determined where each element in the composition would go. Touch it; see how ephemeral it is. See if you can melt it without quite touching it.

Perhaps the one thing that changes most when our world moves indoors is our appreciation of things that live and grow. Instead of marveling at trees, shrubs or flowers in their natural, wild setting, we devise ways to shrink, capture and confine them in pots that clamber close to windows. Try not to take them for granted. These plants, for their staunch, surrogate duty, are all the more worthy of our notice.

For our indoor animal fix, we turn from summer's chancy thrill of spotting critters in their own realms and on their own terms to the certainty of specimens we've shaped to our convenience, bred to need no more than our care and attention. Take advantage of these most opportune occasions to relish your closeness to these dear creatures.

    The subtle white, comet-tail streaks suggest the 
    seeds have streaked out from center. And there 
    they’ve landed, on the vivid, glossy surface of 
    the fruit, each cupped in its own tiny crater. 

Instead of discovering a strange new fruit or nut on a wild plant somewhere in the woods, we learn in winter to explore things closer at hand, perhaps things so common we never thought to look at them with wonder. For example, have you stopped to appreciate the elegance of line, color, form and texture in a freshly sliced strawberry?

See how the flesh morphs from furry, white, womb-like core into sweet, solid crimson. Note the subtle white, comet-tail streaks that suggest the seeds have streaked out from center. And there they’ve landed, on the vivid, glossy surface of the fruit, each cupped in its own tiny crater.

Would you agree that discovery and wonder need not be lost on the home-bound? See if you can find "wild" living critters like meal worms, spiders or perhaps the occasional holdover ladybug. See what you can discover about another person. Play with soap bubbles or static electricity. Explore the attic. Cook something. Try to...ah-h-h...wait a second...whoa-a-a!...I'm sorry, I have a fire going in the fireplace, and there's this...amazing bright blue...tongue of flame…