A BAGGY COAT – A New Years Reflection

During this season of generosity swirling with obligation, of simple joy made sad by unmet expectation, of grateful abundance diminished by addictive excess, I'm trying on, once more, the baggy coat of acceptance, a garment whose fit depends on not its own but the wearer's measure.

         

What do you need to accept or let go of to allow the grateful, hopeful spirit of New Years wrap comfortably around you?

Star-Struck Skies

Fireflies wink across a sweaty field,
A few, beyond, peek from deep woods.
And then I see it: these myriad points of light 
are but reflections, as if off rippling waters, 
of star-struck skies above.

INS AND OUTS – Breathing and Other Cyclical Wonders

(This is the latest in my series of reflections, As If For the First Time, 
describing the most commonplace of experiences through a fresh lens, 
one of innocence and wonder.)

If you meditate, I shouldn’t presume to tell you anything new about breathing. But for those who are open to seeing the familiar through someone else’s eyes—and those who’ve never given breathing a second thought—I offer these observations.

You know how a ball bounces off a wall with that definite pop as it reverses direction? How your teeth collide when you’re chewing?

There are lots of such backs-and-forths in life and in Nature. In some, the change of direction involves an abrupt turning point—a collision of sorts. Two bighorn rams butting heads; your eyes blinking or your heart beating; some cars’ clunky windshield wipers.

There’s another kind of to-and-fro, one with softer yet still distinct reversals. Swinging on a swing; a wave’s ebb and flow upon a sandy beach; that little bead that rebounds straight up just after a falling drop hits the surface of a liquid.

Like nearly every other motion cycle in Nature, these events include three distinct aspects: moving, stopping (even if it’s only for an instant) and then moving in the opposite direction.

     A breath is one of the few things in life that 
     changes direction without ever stopping.

WHAT GOES AROUND
This morning, while meditating, I noticed how different my breathing seems from all those other backs-and-forths, ups-and-downs and to-and-fros. In fact, the transition between an inhalation and an exhalation, or vice versa, is so seamless that it’s absolutely imperceptible. Indeed, it seems a breath is one of the very few things in Nature that changes direction without ever stopping.

Other natural examples of this are exceedingly rare. Perhaps the flow of a stream taking a hairpin turn. An eagle's swoop as it snatches a fish from a lake. The slingshot effect on an asteroid from the gravitational pull of a planet or large moon. Can you think of others?

ILLUSTRATION: NASA

As elegant as those examples are, I contend that Nature’s cheating. They involve motion that’s not truly back and forth—not in a linear sense at least. They all employ a curving element at each end of the object’s path, so it’s not as much back and forth as it is round and round.

Human beings have found ways of borrowing this approximation of back-and-forth from Nature. The cable on a ski lift, conveyer belts, bicycle chains, anything driven by a cam or crank. All seem to go back and forth, but the motion is really circular—albeit with the circle flattened considerably.

 When I think about it this way, the notion of how 
 many breaths I’ve taken in my lifetime—or how 
 many I might have left—starts to lose its meaning.

WHAT GOES AROUND…
How fascinating that the respiration of any creature that breathes—that is, the straight in-and-out path of the air through its nostrils—is so clearly linear, while the deeper sense of breathing is so circular. Perhaps it’s something like that cam or crank...but tell me how the mechanics of one’s lungs even remotely resemble a circular motion.

Whatever the cause, can you name any other motion in Nature that’s so straight-line reciprocal and yet feels so seamlessly round as your breathing?

Okay, this all may seem pretty arcane, pretty immaterial, but it’s the kind of thing an amateur mystic like me can’t help but ponder. I do this not just with the very adult notion of seeking higher consciousness, but also from an incurable, child-like sense of curiosity and wonder.

ILLUSTRATION: http://tao-meditation.blogspot.com

And seeing my breaths—a function I’ve performed without stop about 580,000,000* times now—in this new way is helping me immeasurably in my meditation. It's so much easier getting centered now that I can visualize my breathing not as something that keeps coming back and forth right at me, into me, but as a force, a miracle, that revolves both in me and around me.

When I think about it this way, that notion of how many breaths I’ve taken in my lifetime—or how many I might have left—starts to lose its meaning. Because it’s all one breath.

* According to the Sarasota Herald Tribune, a person at rest takes, on average, about 16 breaths per minute. 
This means we breathe about 960 breaths an hour, 23,040 breaths a day, 8,409,600 a year. Unless we get a lot 
of exercise, the person who lives to 80 will take about 672,768,000 breaths in a lifetime.

GREEN RIVER – Leafscapes of Change

         In one last gasp the thirsty land exclaims 
       in fervent hues, “Do not forget me, green!”

         These aerial views of summer’s wane are rich with meaning. 
           The landscapes speak of flow and ebb, growth and decay.

              Rivers of green recede from lands they’ve nourished, 
            lush and pliant, since May. Tributaries that coursed then 
             with new life now gather it, drain it back to the source. 
      Stream to brook to rivulet—all know in their cellular souls that, 
      here in northern climes, frozen flow hurts more than none at all.

         In between, red, orange and gold spread as on New England   
                 hillsides. In one last gasp the thirsty land exclaims 
                        in fervent hues, “Do not forget me, green!” 

                    In the end, flow slows to trickle; trickle, to seep;
             and then is gone. Sere earth mottles, cracks and crumbles. 
        And decay’s fall brew percolates to nourish the land once again, 
                      stored up for yet another May flood of green.

SECOND CHANCE FOR A MIGHT-HAVE-BEEN

A couple of days ago I was taking my early evening walk along Minneapolis’s beautiful East River Parkway. Half a block ahead, in front of the Shriners Hospital (for children with severe muscle, bone and joint conditions) I noticed a young family sitting on a bench near the sidewalk—a pair of pretty down-and-out-looking parents and a seven- or eight-year-old boy in a wheelchair, one leg heavily splinted and jutting out in front of him.

Just then, I was passing a lovely Japanese lilac bush in full, fragrant bloom. On a whim, I stopped, reached in and broke off a single stem.

Thirty seconds later, I’d passed the family, said nothing and still pinched the lilac spray between my thumb and forefinger. It seemed to wilt as I looked down at it. I’d let my chance pass me by, a chance to hand the boy the flower, wish the family well and maybe brighten the day for all of us. I spent the rest of the evening pondering why.

The reasons—involving, I suppose, body language, lack of eye contact and perhaps a bit of shyness—made sense, but, in the end, they were far from relevant enough to salve my regret.

One just doesn't get chances like that again.

     He lifted it to his nose and, as if the sweet 
     scent had just inflated his cheeks, beamed.

Yesterday I took the same walk again. I wondered what the chances were of seeing the same family again. This time, though, there was no one at the bench. So I’m not sure why I once again stopped at the lilac bush and cut another spray; I didn’t give it much thought.

As I passed the bench, I couldn’t see a soul anywhere on the hospital’s sweeping lawn. I wondered about the boy, how he was doing today, and whether he’d be able to live a normal life. Just then, as if materializing out of my very thoughts, the family appeared from behind some trees, turned onto the sidewalk and headed toward me.

What a gift!, I thought. How often does one get a second chance at doing something spontaneous? Had my thoughts—or perhaps my instinctive cutting of another flower—somehow caused these folks to appear out of nowhere?

This time I wasn’t going to let the moment escape me. “Hello…lovely evening, isn’t it?” I said to them all. Then I bent over and looked down at the boy. I tried to imagine what his life has been like dealing with whatever had brought them to Shriners; I pictured him soon laughing and running with his friends.

My words were, I’m afraid, far less articulate than my thoughts. “Hi. How are you?” He turned a slightly wary expression my way, a drop of his Coke lingering in one corner of his mouth. “Good,” he replied flatly. I smiled and handed the lilac to him. He lifted it to his nose and, as if the sweet scent had just inflated his cheeks, beamed. 

Lacking the right words no longer seemed to matter; our exchange had been most articulate, most complete, without them. And I was grateful, not just for the fates bringing us together, but for their having done it twice.

I still don’t know how the boy and his parents suddenly appeared out of nowhere, but I’d like to think it was preordained, yet another lesson in how the simplest bud of impulse, when honored with one’s full intention and presence, can blossom.

NATURE’S A MIRROR – Why Shining Our Light Enlightens Us

I started my book, Under the Wild Ginger, as a collection of essays about noticing and exploring the world around us. As I considered which pieces to include, a friend with whom I’d been sharing some of my ideas pointed out how much more interesting the collection would be if it included an appreciation of the wonders within us.

As I considered his suggestion, what really convinced me was my belief that
what we see—or, perhaps more accurately, what we choose to see—is, in fact, a reflection of who we are.
 

One can’t be moved by Nature’s splendor without letting oneself be moved. And this is by no means a given. Take a walk in the woods, and even those of us who see ourselves as Nature lovers often have a hard time noticing the incredible details right in front of our noses. We appreciate being there…but we’re not all there.

    What we so often fail to realize is that Nature 
    can heal many of those hurts if we let her.

It’s not for lack of the right tools; most of us have reasonably well-developed senses. It’s because we’re so used to having our whole world revolve around “bigger” concepts. Business people looking for the next big thing; consultants promoting a new paradigm; friends simply distracted by their own commitments, conquests or simply coping. Whatever it is within us that hungers for a connection with things more universal, more timeless, it’s just not able to find its way out.

For others, the problem may be more than just being too busy. Too often, there’s genuine pain, from injury, loss or disappointment. It’s hard to put yourself out there when you hurt. And in a way that’s even more of a shame, because what we so often fail to realize is that Nature can heal many of those hurts if we let her.

ORIGINAL INNOCENCE
I don’t consider myself a religious person, yet I’m quite spiritual. I believe
that everything and everyone is an embodiment of what I call God, an incomprehensibly vast and powerful force of beauty, goodness and love.

We are all, somewhere at our cores, sweet, innocent children. Problem is, our parents, our culture, our circumstances and, in some cases, a genetic or chemical roll of the dice has stifled that pure goodness, heaping layer upon layer of muck
on top of it: ambition, expectation, responsibility and guilt, to name a few.

And technology, like a delicious dish or drink best consumed in moderation, only goes so far before it becomes presence’s undoing. For too many of us, it’s discrediting every last excuse we have for not being
able to do everything, for anyone, all the time.

So truly connecting with Nature and wonder is about removing some of those layers. Rather than following the workaday world’s mantra of making things happen, this is about slowing down, quieting the voices that drive us, restoring healthy boundaries and letting things happen—things that, as it turns out, were there all the time.

USE IT OR LOSE IT
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if, just as we learn to let Nature’s little hidden wonders find us, we would all devote the time and attention it takes to peel back some of our innermost layers and find ourselves? It might be a dirty, smelly job, but chances are what we’d find is something very good indeed. In fact, this innate, inner goodness is the one essential gift which, no matter what our condition in life—rich or poor, educated or self-taught, able-bodied or hobbled—we have to share with the world.

               Unlike more tangible gifts, 
               this one, if not given, is lost.

One of my favorite spirituality thinkers and writers, Marianne Williamson, in her book, A Return to Love, wrote about that essential good, that inner light that shines within each of us:

We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone…As we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.


Every day, I try to let these brilliant words hold sway over all the lessons of modesty and self-denial I was taught growing up. I remind myself that every single person I pass that day represents my chance to shine my light. Whether it’s by helping them, listening to them or simply greeting them with a smile and a kind word, that’s the gift I have to share. And, unlike more tangible gifts, this one, if not given, is lost.


WHAT GOES AROUND...
If only it were as easy extending this blessing to God’s other creations. Too often, even if we’re successful in uncovering our inner, curious child, our understanding of Nature is superficial. We take her for granted, assuming that, because we so long to be with her, she’ll always be there and will always welcome us.

But that assumption fails to understand her sheer frailty, the damage we’ve already inflicted on her, and her urgent need for the same kind of understanding and care we’d give a vulnerable friend or a child.

By loving Nature superficially—wanting what she gives but failing to understand what she needs—we end up loving her to death. And in Nature we mustn’t forget that, as powerful as that image of shining one’s light may be, it’s only half the picture.

Remember the premise I started with: what we see reflects who we are? The other half of the picture is letting our light shine back into us. For it is that energy—which, as Williamson says, also kindles it in others—that recharges our own ability to shine in the first place. Whether it’s in Nature or with other human beings, only by giving that energy—the energy I call seeing generously—can we receive it.

–Shine on, my friends!–

SPARKS, SPECKS AND SPIRITS – Wonder Moves Indoors

Winter Cabin – Vilhelm von Gegerfelt von Gegerfelt 1844-1920

For four or five months a year, snow, ice, slush and some of the most extreme cold endured by anyone in the continental U.S. conspire to keep us Minnesotans indoors. But if you’re like me, just because you’re confined doesn’t mean your curiosity, your sense of wonder, your appreciation of beauty can just be turned off like the water supply to a frozen pipe.

From summer’s wide-angle view of Nature, winter has us dialing down to a tighter, more selective framing of things. Instead of the near overload your senses might experience at summer’s explosion of life and light, you’re challenged to find and cherish smaller, dearer things. You learn to appreciate—and appreciate learning—things that might not even make the cut on summer’s infinite to-do list.

Inside that dark little chamber a miniature 
electrical storm kicks up as the Orlon interacts 
with your dry hair.

SOMETHING IN THE AIR
If there’s one thing that loves a Minnesota winter, it’s static electricity. Arctic air, stabbing down from Canada, is already bone dry by the time it gets here. (Witness our chapped lips and the Styrofoam-like crunch of fresh snow delivered by one of our “Alberta clipper” storms.) But indoors, desiccated still further by furnace heat, the air shrivels to desert-like, single-digit relative humidities, cracking hair and skin, parching houseplants, separating furniture and floor joints.

Add to this perfectly conducive medium the tinder of friction between things fluffy and synthetic (like slippers or socks) and natural fibers (like woolen carpet), and you’ll discover one way we northerners stay awake through all those long, housebound evenings.

The sparks are even more fun when observed in the dark or, better still, when released, with their satisfying little snap, on the tender ear lobe of an unsuspecting sibling. Or try turning off all the lights and then peeling off your Orlon pullover. Inside that dark little chamber a miniature electrical storm, complete with high-pitched zaps of thunder, kicks up as the Orlon interacts with your dry hair.

Have you noticed how outdoor summer air teems with particulate matter: dust, pollen, mold spores and who knows what else? Indoor winter air, barring expensive filters, is every bit as richly seasoned, albeit with different “spices.” What it lacks in pollen it makes up for in dander from humans and pets. The dust and mold are there too, just different kinds.

To see for yourself how much solid material lurks in household air just study a shaft of sunlight, a flashlight beam or the glow of your bedside reading lamp. (This works especially well when the rest of the room’s dark.) If what you see doesn’t alarm you, it will, at least, make you appreciate how well the nose and the rest of the respiratory system manages to filter out all this junk.

For our animal fix, we turn to the certainty 
of specimens we shape to our convenience.


DISCOVERY, DOMESTICATED
Could there be a more elegant artistic expression than the crystalline masterpieces Nature renders with water?

Outdoors, of course, it’s snow. Whether you perceive it as flake or drift, it’s the most sublime of sculptures. Indoors, relegated to the two-dimensional “canvas” of frozen glass, she once again outdoes herself. One appreciates the brushwork of strokes and patterns; marvels at the feathered crystalline detail; imagines how the artist determined where each element would go.

        

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 a tree, shrub or flower in its natural, wild setting, we devise ways to shrink it, capture it and confine it in pots that clamber close to windows.

For our animal fix, we turn from the chancy thrill of spotting critters in their own realm and on their own terms, to the certainty of specimens we shape to our convenience, bred to need no more than our care and attention.

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

INSIDE OF INSIDE
Within our own minds—and those of people we care about—lie at least as many layers, twists and turns of discovery as there are in Nature’s outer realm. Our winter proximity to other human beings, whether it’s being sealed inside a vehicle or huddled around a hearth, encourages conversation, rewards patience and understanding.

        

It rewards self-discovery too, for turning our attention inward, in reflection, reverie or meditation, can show us the way toward becoming more loving—of others and ourselves.

Our taste for transcendent thought, that yearning for chances to glimpse the unfathomable, knows no season. But in winter, when we’re stuck inside so much of the time, often in close quarters, finding a quiet space and some time of our own can be challenging.

When we can find a way, though, the benefits will likely outweigh those of all the breezy tips I’ve noted above. For once you’ve found your spiritual wings, not even the cruelest Minnesota winter can confine you.

WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS, ESCAPE
When your interest in firsthand observation has run its course, what better time than a long, bone-chilling winter evening to turn to vicarious discovery. Turn on the tube. Try to avoid stepping in TV’s notion of “reality,” and find one of the many excellent nature and outdoor adventure programs.

Fly off around the cyber-world on the Internet, or, better yet, turn off everything but your mind and journey into the boundless world of imagination and wonder to be found in a good book. Get lost in a gardening catalog or website; build a model; collect something; plan a party. Or, if none of these virtual escapes quite satisfies your itch, book your dream vacation…and get out of there for real!

HOW TO BE IN THE MOMENT – 101 Little Tips

TIP #14 
Get polarized sunglasses.

 






Squint as you will; you'll never crack that hard enamel glare 
that sun bakes onto water. 

Polarized lenses, though, like magic x-ray glasses, dissolve the 
glare, reveal the mysteries of that alien world behind reflection.

A SLOUGH OF WONDERS – Celebrating My Happy Place

Where's your happy place? You know, that one favorite spot you escape to when you're in pain, under stress or just bored to death. The place that always takes you in, where you restore your equilibrium, reclaim your truth.

For some people, it might be about home and family—perhaps their mothers' kitchens when they were children. For others, it might involve a favorite activity, like gardening, golfing or fishing. I suppose it could even be an imaginary place, a kind of spiritual outdoors you get to by just walking out on your abrasive thoughts and surroundings for a while.

But what I'm thinking of would be a place in Nature, a real locale, a tangible space delineated by air, water, earth and life. Do you have such a place that's dear to you?

            If it were to be wiped from the 
            face of the earth, I'd still go there.

A DOSE OF WILDERNESS
My happy place is a real place. I go there physically when I can, and in my imagination when I have to. If, for some reason, it were to be wiped from the face of the earth, I'd still go there. That's how much a part of me it's become.

It's a slough, or side channel, of the St. Croix River, the beautiful stream that separates Minnesota from Wisconsin for 125 of its 164-mile length. I discovered it as a boy, when my family would spend summers at our home just across the river. And, even though I've had few lasting connections with the house and land, I've continued going to the slough, in both body and spirit, for more than fifty years.

             These days that's not a bad price 
             to pay for a dose of wilderness.

Today, the trip involves a little more effort than that boyhood walk of about a quarter mile to the river. Now I have to drive north from my home in Minneapolis for about an hour. Then I get my canoe and gear in the water and paddle about half a mile to the inconspicuous gap in the wooded bank that marks the slough's entrance. These days that's not a bad price to pay for a dose of wilderness.

By the time I pull up at the landing, I've already begun my transformation, dropping off my worries  along the way, picking up a few parcels of quiet anticipation. When I step out of my car, the air's clean and fragrant, the sun warm, the clamor of the city left far behind. And, if I'm lucky, the St. Croix looks just right—low enough to leave exposed a few welcome sandbars, but not so low as to require portaging into the slough.

       

REFLECTIVE RHYTHMS 
What best exemplifies my metamorphosis, though, is the striking change of vehicles—leaving the one designed for a mile a minute for the one whose progress is measured in yards. I'm also trading a conveyance that both consumes and breathes poison for one with no appetite nor breath but my own.

There's something so perfectly liberating and empowering about the self-reliance of traveling by canoe. Each paddle stroke, each foot I might have to drag or carry my gear across a log or shallow sand bar, rewards me with a modest, well-earned result. It's a celebration, not simply of freedom, not just of connecting with Nature, but of the way my body works and feels.

         Their breath and mine, as well as that 
         of a thousand fellow beings—poplar 
         and pine, deer and otter, cardinal and 
         eagle—mingle in this delicious air.  

The synthesis of physical exertion with my mental and spiritual surrender make me part of this place—one that, very likely, has changed little since the days when the Ojibwe or Dakota plied these waters three centuries ago. Their breath and mine, as well as that of a thousand fellow beings—poplar and pine, deer and otter, cardinal and eagle—mingle in this delicious air.

My time in the slough is like a meditation on two levels at the same time: the syncopated rhythms of paddling and breathing center me deep within, while a lush tapestry of sensations wraps around and, like the sure guidance of trusted friend's arm, draws me out to become one with my surroundings. My mind, free of schedule or expectation, glides, like my canoe, wherever I choose to take it—or just drifts with the wind. Either way, my spirit is nourished completely.

               It's a change I'm afraid too many 
               people find so easy that it's hard.

OVER THINKING
It's funny: I don't think very much while I'm paddling in the slough. I used to feel I could use the time to do some creative problem solving or to make difficult decisions about my life. But I've come to understand and accept that that's not where my spiritual energy wants to go. It wants to lift me above all those mundane tasks and embrace that one deceptively simple task of simply being. It's a change I'm afraid too many people find so easy that it's hard.

I hope you have a happy place, a place where easy is easy. If not, I hope one will find you.

We should all have at least one real, tangible happy place we can go to, a setting whose highs and lows, whose bends and backwaters, whose headwinds and tailwinds have become parts of who we are. What's extraordinary about this is that, no matter where that might be, even in the years we all know will come when we can no longer go there physically, we'll still be able to go there in our hearts and minds.

Where's your happy place? Is it one of peace and reflection? Do you ever go there virtually?

WITH THE FLOW – Day's End on the St. Croix

The bow of my canoe says hush-h-h!, carving into the muddy sand. I obey and get out on the small stretch of beach, grateful for the chance to stretch my legs. The damp sand, still warm from a day of full sun, feels good underfoot. I'm in no hurry; I decide to unpack my camp chair, sit and enjoy the last hour or so of a clear, quiet, perfect day on the river.

A few hours ago, as I paddled past this very spot, I'd surprised a confab of red horse suckers in the shallows, their flight churning up plumes of sediment like so many cartoon dialog bubbles: "Zoom!" "Whoosh!" I love catching red horse, so I bait my hook with a night crawler and throw it out to the spot and let it sit. I keep one eye on the hanging arc of line, while the other scans the river.

A vulture, working circles just above the treetops, casts a darting black dot in the reflection.

Here on the Minnesota side of the St. Croix River, the sun's clicking off the last few degrees of its arc across a cloudless sky. As my little beach welcomes the shade, the forest across the way on the Wisconsin side glows with that rich, warm light that distills out of normal light just before sunset—the kind that artists love.

The northwesterly breeze, hazy with smoke from Canadian forest fires, has died down now, and the water's surface mirrors the golden sand banks and a hundred shades of green from the far shore. Even a vulture, working circles just above the treetops, casts a darting black dot just below them in the reflection.

A thousand insects have begun their evening chorus with a constant, high-pitched sizzle.

Instead of red horse, I'm catching bass— smallies. I'm surprised they're going for the weeks-old, nearly lifeless night crawlers I've brought. I play them for a minute or two, admire their elegant, muscular beauty and let them go. But for their obvious annoyance, I convince myself they're none the worse for wear. I wish they could tell me so.

From the woods behind me, blue jays scold, while across the river, a crow shouts them down. Still deeper in the forest, a thousand insects have begun their evening chorus, a constant, high-pitched sizzle. The percussion section chimes in—a throaty squawk that reminds me of a güiro, the hollow, grooved gourd played like a washboard in Latin music. I've never heard this one before; some kind of katydid, I suppose.

Just as I'm starting to believe there's really two of everything on the far shore, a motor boat goes by, addling the reflection…and me.

As the colors on the Wisconsin shore deepen, a bald eagle works his way resolutely northward toward the high rock cliffs, his size and majestic wing flaps making the vulture look scrawny, awkward.

Just as I'm starting to believe there's really two of everything on the far shore, a motor boat goes by, addling the reflection…and me. I watch patiently as both gradually regain their composure. I'm grateful this boat is the only one I've seen today.

I visualize the one-foot-thick vertical slice of water that's passing me in this instant, and wonder where it will be tomorrow at this time, next week, next month.

Though the river appears very still, a few floating leaves and sticks betray its slow, silent power. This is the quality of rivers that moves me the way the tides move sea-lovers. Every time you look, it's a new river. I visualize the one-foot-thick vertical slice of water that's passing me in this instant, and wonder where it will be tomorrow at this time, next week, next month. Will it outrun sub-zero temperatures before they catch and detain some of it till spring?

Now, as the sun sets behind me, the mosquitoes come on in their blood-lust. I appreciate the dragonflies that dart around me, picking them off in mid-air. Once again I needn't test the potency of my 30-year-old army surplus DEET.

The shadow line crawls visibly up the trees on the other side, slowly snuffing what's left of the stubborn sunlight. As if on cue, the evening's first bard owl inquires in its inimitable cadence, "Who, who, who-who; who, who, who-whoo-o-o?" This sound echoes the very first sensation I remember when, as a child, I'd first come down to the river by myself at dusk—only then it didn't accompany this near-full moonrise.

 Might an Ojibwe or Dakota elder have stood in this very spot three centuries ago and experienced the very same sensations I'm feeling now?

The sun now departed, the day's warmth takes the hint and follows. A palpable wave of cool, damp, muddy-moldy-smelling air is pouring down the valley and envelopes me. And I wonder, Might an Ojibwe or Dakota elder have stood in this very spot three centuries ago and experienced the very same sensations I'm feeling now? Was this just another day at the office for him, or did he share the sense of wonder and gratitude I'm feeling now?

Taking this thought with me, I pack up, drift quietly back down to the landing and head home. But my reverie lasts, the memory of this last hour etched forever into my heart and soul. I feel so in harmony with the flow of the St. Croix and the ways in which it parallels my life.

Perhaps most importantly, it reminds me that I'm so much more than simply an observer of life's flow as it moves inexorably past.

I'm on it. I'm in it. I'm part of that flow, connected with other places and other times, with the rocks and sands that contain it, with all those slinking, swimming, soaring creatures that are drawn to it as I am, and with every single human being who's ever let himself be swept away by its wonder.

US VERSUS US – And Other Reflections

EXTREME MAKEOVER?
The universe is immense beyond our comprehension. Yet this vastness is reflected, literally at our fingertips. For there in a single skin cell exists another  “universe”—one of ever-smaller and smaller particles. Even an atom, which itself is a ten millionth the size of the period at the end of this sentence, is made up of components that are proving every bit as hard to count as the number of bodies in the celestial universe.

Here, at Nature’s extremes, is where perspective begins to get a little weird. As physicists venture into the realms of quarks, quasars and antimatter, they’re learning that the rules governing the concepts of not only space, but mass, time, motion and even existence are going to have to change.

It’s never the simplistic “us versus them” paradigm we’ve invented to try to make sense of complexity and manage emotions.

NEW REALITIES
Two things you might think would fall at opposite ends of a scale of time, size or space might, according to these new realities, actually lie right next to each other or even coincide. In these latitudes, large encompasses small; bad includes good; beauty has its ugly side. In everything lie the seeds of its opposite. And the astounding Intelligence that designed it all, at once everywhere and nowhere, looks on kindly as we endeavor to understand. 

So the worlds I continue to explore around, within and beyond me are ultimately the same world. It’s all one, and it’s all good—the beginnings, the endings and everything in between.

In politics, in international relations, in personal conflicts and even in war, it may just be that it’s never really about what we think it’s about. It’s never the simplistic “us versus them” paradigm we’ve invented to try to make sense of complexity and manage emotions.

Because there’s always a part of “them” in “us” and vice versa, it’s always about us.

We can learn something important both from what exists and what doesn’t exist, from things and the spaces between things, from words and silence.

WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN?
It's impossible to overstate the significance of this new understanding. The implications for those of us exploring who we are and where we fit in whole scheme of things are becoming clearer by the day:

• What happens to one person, one animal, one river, one ecosystem ultimately affects every other.

• The spiritual energy each of us produces can instantaneously change someone's reality on the other side of the world. 

• There’s always another way of looking at something, another way to experience and explore it.

 

• We can learn something important both from what exists and what doesn’t exist, from things and the spaces between things, from words and silence.

• The answer to any conflict is for both parties to understand that what they judge and fear in their enemy is a reflection of themselves.

• The solution to any of society's most daunting challenges could already be within our reach, simply awaiting a fresh perspective or a more open mind before revealing itself.

• Finally—perhaps the most important implication of all—it means there are no limits other than those we impose on ourselves. In fact, we’re only just barely separated—if at all—from the ideal, the sacred, the timeless.

HOW TO BE IN THE MOMENT – 101 Little Tips

TIP #15 
Get polarized sunglasses.

Squint as you will; you'll never penetrate that hard enamel glare that sun bakes onto water. 

Regular sunglasses may help ease the pain, but they don't crack the shell. Polarized lenses, though, like magic x-ray goggles, dissolve the glare, revealing the mysteries of that alien world behind reflection.

"Now we see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity."
1 CORINTHIANS 13:12 - NEW LIVING TRANSLATION

THE TRUTH OF SILENCE

There's a "fill-in-the-blanks" conspiracy out there, a plot to cover every square inch of every possible surface with a mark claiming it as either the property or the advertising medium of some enterprise or another. If it's not already there, we'll soon see advertising tattooed on people's faces!

And, as if this visual scourge weren't bad enough, the offensive has also taken aim on audible open space.

In this era of $10 million-a-minute Super Bowl spots and ever- more- aggressive, ever- more- creative advertising blitzes, air time is money. Those nice quiet spells sitting in a theater, waiting for the feature to begin…gone. Being able to concentrate on your shopping list while negotiating the aisles at the super market…nope. Escaping the blitz on "commercial-free" public media…forget about it.


  Silences are the driving force behind real dialog.

Furthermore, this saturation of every possible medium with some kind of message seems to have spilled over into how we human animals communicate with each other. To be fair, we already seem to have a natural discomfort with silences in our conversation. But have you noticed that, between this aversion and the aggression of sheer, blatant self-promotion, it's often hard for one without an agenda to get in a word edgewise?

In fact, it's gone beyond just losing the silent intervals in conversation; the new norm seems to be for all the tracks of a conversation to run simultaneously. In Minnesota Public Radio's just completed membership drive, for example, it struck me how this multi-tracking banter has become the norm for these fundraising affairs. The same with those inane morning TV talk shows; everyone's talking over each other. Do they know something we don't? Is that really what they think we want to hear?

I LOVE SILENCES
I've only recently begun to articulate what it is that bothers me so much about this trend. I love silences. Not necessarily silence in general, though I enjoy that too, but intervals of silence, pauses, a little breathing room here and there in a conversation.

Silences are the driving force behind real dialog. Not only do they indicate that the speaker is thinking—a good thing, don't you think?—they also give the listener a chance to enter the conversation. And even when it's just one-way communication—such as a speech or a lecture—those little breaks allow listeners a chance to begin processing what they're hearing, time, if you will, to respond mentally.

   It was as if he'd intentionally allowed those 
   intervals for the thoughts to complete 
   their flow from him, transfer and take root 
   in my consciousness.

GIVING VOICE TO THE SPIRIT
I recently heard, for the first time, the voice of the astute author and spiritual guide, Eckhart Tolle. I was struck right away by how soft-spoken he is. But what drew me in even more were the lavish periods of silence he welcomes into his delivery—intervals of sometimes ten to fifteen seconds.

I suppose that, in some kinds of conversation, that sort of void might have made me uncomfortable. But, in this case, I found myself basking in those silences. You might say I found as much of a message in the spaces between his thoughts as in the thoughts themselves. It was as if he'd intentionally allowed those intervals for the thoughts to complete their flow from him, transfer and take root in my consciousness.

I also experience the spiritual richness of silence in church, in my men's group or at any gathering where time is devoted to quiet prayer or reflection. There's something so powerful and moving about a group of people together engaged in that kind of transcendent dialog. In those instances, it's even more clear to me how much we need silence in order for our own souls to both listen and speak to us.

SILENCE IS RELATIVE
Though we think of Nature—or more particularly, wilderness—as being rich with silence, this is rarely the case. I guess it's just that, unlike the background noise of our workaday worlds, the ambient sounds of nature are something we choose, and therefore welcome. Perhaps the whisper of pines, the gurgling of water, the jabber of birds, seem like silence because something deep inside tells us they belong.

    The next sound to enter that empty space in 
    my soul was the one that woke me the next 
    morning: the electrifying howls of a pack of 
    wolves from across the bay.

I've experienced utter silence just a few times in my life. The most memorable was one night while I was on a solo canoe trip deep in northern Minnesota's vast Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. As I lay in my sleeping bag one still, starry night, I realized I couldn't make out a sound of any kind. Not a breeze, not the smallest wave breaking, not even the ubiquitous, mournful plea of a distant loon. The silence was so profound that I experienced it as a thundering reverberation, perhaps a response my brain devised as its own nervous response to such an unaccustomed lack of stimulation.

I eventually fell back asleep, unaware at the time that the sound vacuum I'd experienced was to serve a higher purpose, to make room in my spirit for an even greater wonder that was to come. In fact, the very next sound to enter that empty space in my soul was the one that woke me the next morning: the electrifying howls of a pack of wolves from across the bay.

 So, what's the balance of noise and silence in your life? How do you experience the silences? Do you find yourself wanting more?

Music and silence combine strongly because music is done with silence, and silence is full of music. -- MARCEL MARCEAU