HOW TO BE IN THE MOMENT – 101 Little Tips

 TIP #102

Be creative in choosing your vantage point.

Nature doesn’t necessarily keep regular hours, and, in general, She’s pretty shy. But there are things you can do to better your chances She'll reveal something really amazing next time you’re out and about:

    •  Head for places that are hard to get to. This means—if you’re able—
        hiking a little further, climbing a little higher, paddling and portaging
        a little more.

    •  Go when other people don’t; if summer’s the most popular time,
        go in the spring or fall.

    •  Get there early or stay late.

    •  Find a point of view others may not have imagined.

    •  Finally, if you don't succeed in evading crowds and canned tours,
        rationalize. After all, people are part of Nature too, right?

COLD DAY SHOWER

Lost in a hot winter shower

A shower feels good any time of year. But in the winter—especially when it's 15 degrees below zero outside as it is this morning—sometimes a good hot shower's the only way you can reach that chill that's penetrated to your core.

This morning I'm taking one of those showers.

I let the water run until the glass steams up. How relative the heat is. When I first step in, I have to quickly turn the handle down to avoid burning myself. But in no time it feels tepid; I turn it up. By the time I'm "cooked," I've done so several times, to the point where the water's now much hotter than it was at first when I couldn't stand it. Now my skin's turning red—brightest on top of my shoulders, with definite streaks where the nearly scalding rivulets run down my chest.

The meditation's put me in touch with something very basic, very pure. A celebration. I am deeply warmed in body and soul. 

I play with the tickling jets of water, testing the effect of each on a pruning fingertip. Of the hundred or so strands the shower head dispenses, no two are alike. Some are focused and fierce, biting into my skin; others I can barely feel. Some subdivide their meager share into still finer spray; a few barely drip, choked off by years of lime deposits.

I turn around to face the beneficent bombardment. As it drives heat into my chest,
I feel my back cooling. I experiment, and finally perfect a sort of "rotisserie" movement, gradually turning my body while rocking slowly back and forth. That's more like it.

After a while, I realize I've indeed lost track of time—in fact, of every thought. The meditation's put me in touch with something very basic, very pure. A celebration.
I am deeply warmed in body and soul.

I turn off the water and reach for my towel. The shower head gurgles as it drains. Each drop clips the gray rubber edge of the shower squeegee hanging from the shower caddy and deflects out at my chest. They're cool, but it feels good.

THE COLOR OF SNOW

It was certainly a white Christmas here in Minnesota. In fact, it's been a white winter, with 55 inches so far here in Minneapolis—and our snowiest months yet to come.

We don't take snow for granted; some years our winter landscape ranges from one tone of gray to another. It's then that we appreciate how much color snow brings to the winter palette. Remember: white is not the absence of color; it's the presence of all colors.

How many colors do you see in snow?

Our eyes do a funny thing with color. We tend to perceive it only in comparison with its surroundings. Since there's seldom anything more "white" in our view than fresh snow, we think of it as all white, pure white. But if you could tear out a swatch of that "white" and paste it down next to some other apparent whites, all their distinct hues would be obvious. (I deal with shades of white and black in my 12/9/10 post, Black & White – And Other Shades of Gray.)

I've done this exercise on paper, and I do it in my mind's eye all the time, so I know what to look for. Today, for example, the fresh snow on gabled roofs across the street is tinged with lilac—reflecting the influences of a patchy blue of sky, a dab of brick red from adjacent walls, and perhaps a muting hint of cloud gray.

The sun's last rays still caught the top of the next ridge, like a great golden-glowing knife slicing through thick charcoal.

I've seen snow tinted every imaginable color: pinks, blues, golds, even greens. Perhaps the most memorable example caught my eye several years ago on a cross-country ski trip on the North Shore of Lake Superior. We'd been skiing all afternoon. The conditions were perfect; the biggest challenge was the sun's blinding glare off of the fresh snow. Later, as the sun nestled into the horizon, the cold and the gray wrapped somberly around us. Nearing the trailhead, we turned to cross the top of one last ridge, and there, a half mile off to our right, the sun's last rays still caught the top of the next ridge, like a great golden-glowing knife slicing through thick charcoal.

Now that I'm attuned to the colors of snow, I can't help seeing them. In fact, I'm thinking, snow without color must be very rare indeed. If one were ever to behold it, possessed of its full complement of color and light—in other words, perfectly white—I suspect it might be a profound, even disturbing, sight, the eye's equivalent, perhaps, to the ear's perception of absolute silence.

Where was the most colorful snow you've ever seen?

NATURE AFTER HOURS – Frog Serenade at Las Ranas

With overexposure threatening the earth’s remaining wild places, we now have to regulate people’s access to many of them. Parks and nature preserves close for the night. Wilderness areas limit the number of people allowed to enter or the length of time they can stay. In a way this is sad, but I suppose it’s a good thing, considering how many of Nature’s gifts we’ve already managed to love to death. 

   Were they addressing the spirits that 
   dwell here? Or were they the spirits?

Still, I’ve often wondered if Nature isn’t one step ahead of us. Do you think she might, out of sheer spite, decide to wait until these places empty out and close their gates for the day before letting down her guard and revealing her best? 

LUCKY LAGGARTS

My friend, Silverio, and I were exploring the northeast corner of the Mexican heartland state of Querétaro. 

Climbing into the Sierra Gorda, we came to Las Ranas, the archeological site of a pre-Hispanic Totonaca town, featuring nicely excavated and restored pyramids surrounded by elaborate, walled stone terraces stair-stepping up to the crest of a steep, thickly forested hill. What an odd name, we thought: Las Ranas – The Frogs.

Turns out we’d arrived pretty close to the site’s surprisingly early closing time. The two disheveled guards told us sternly to make it quick, and that we’d better be out by 4:00. We hoped that deadline would be measured in "Mexican time."
 

We wandered among the immutable gray stone structures. One was an arena of sorts, site of the ancient pelota game (which looked, in artists’ representations, like a precursor to soccer). Silverio told me this game, though not played any more, remains an important symbol to many Mexicans. I’d heard elsewhere that the Aztecs took it so seriously that losers were routinely sacrificed to the gods!

      ...the wave had crested right over us, filling the treetops, 
    inundating us in a raucous chorus of dry, raspy twittering.

By the time we'd worked our way up to the highest spot on the site, I noticed that the few other visitors had all left; it was already after four. The prospect occurred to me of being locked overnight inside what might be a pretty eerie place in the dark. Should we rush out?

Then we remembered we’d actually parked outside the gate and could easily scale the flimsy fence. We looked at each other, at the timeless structures surrounding us, and then at the gorgeous view across the lush gorge. What the hell, we decided, they'll just have to come get us. (In fact, we didn’t see them again.)

Now that we had the place to ourselves, everything felt different. It was that rare sense of privilege you experience when you have something really good and really popular all to yourself. We sat in silence for several minutes, soaking in the stillness, communing in our own ways with whatever spirits might still dwell there.

Illustration: Katy Farina

A TWITTERING TSUNAMI

Suddenly an incredible drama started to play out. In the distance, from the bottom of the gorge, we heard a faint, eerie murmuring sound, like people whispering—lots of people. 
Then, like a tsunami, the sound swept up the hillside toward us, swelling in its intensity. 

Within about ten seconds, the wave had crested right over us, filling the treetops, inundating us in a raucous chorus of dry, raspy twittering. Then the wave ebbed, sweeping back down the hillside and fading back to stillness. It all took less than a minute.

We scanned the treetops to see if we could find what had produced that incredible deluge of sound, but then we remembered the site's name: the frogs. 

So it was frogs—specifically tree frogs. Could it really be that their ancient ancestors had once serenaded the Totonacas in this very spot six centuries ago? Had they always acted like this, waiting every day until they thought they were alone before speaking out so unanimously?

Were they addressing the spirits that dwell here? Or were they the spirits?

HOW TO BE IN THE MOMENT – 101 Little Tips

 TIP #85

Don't miss the trees for the forest.

Ten thousand sardines turn as one organism. Leaf-cutter ants pour like a river afloat with tiny, green-sailed ships across the jungle floor.

Wonder en masse. But pick just one individual and watch it closely. See why life's so much closer to the edge for the one than for the whole.

ON STEEL AND WATER – The Marvels of Ice Skating

LIKE BUTTER
Back when I played college ice hockey, I used to love being the first player out on the rink before a game or at the start of a new period. That was when the ice was pristine, freshly planed and recoated by the Zamboni. I always thought to myself it was like skating on butter, a metaphor not as much for the physical qualities of fresh ice as for its deliciousness.

For one exquisite lap, mine were the only marks on that translucent, milky surface. I could take one powerful stride and coast the length of the rink. Even more fun, though, was
taking that first lap fast, with long, powerful strides. I'd look behind me at the graceful, outward sweeping lines my blades were etching into the ice. Each one threw a dusting of bright white snow, chiseled by the angled steel edge. The pleasure of that pattern reminded me of the trail of swirls one leaves canoeing across a glassy lake.

In those moments, skating was a sort of meditation.

In those moments, skating was a sort of meditation, a deep awareness not just of the esthetics, but of that sublime progression of muscles, motions and balance that comprise a skating stride. It starts with a subtle lowering of the center of gravity as hip and knee contract and weight begins transferring to that leg.

The extension comes, almost imperceptibly, from the buttocks; then the thigh thrusts outward while the knee straightens; and finally, like the exclamation point at the end of a command, the ankle straightens sharply, the toes and ball of the foot driving the blade's curved toe into the ice and impelling the transfer of weight back to the other leg. That last little snap of force makes a distinct munching sound as the blade bites deeper into the ice. Instead of snow, little chips of ice fly.

CLEAR BLACKNESS

Skating outdoors on natural ice is very different. Ideal conditions are rare. In fact, in my lifetime, I've only experienced them a handful of times. Instead of the silky, milky white of man-made ice, the perfect natural ice is black. In fact, it has that paradoxical quality of clear blackness, like the water of a pond rich in dissolved organic material. Black ice occurs only when it's below freezing for some time before the first snowfall. And there can't be lots of wind while that bare ice is forming, or it will have humps and waves.

Cracks wind through black ice like white ribbons on edge.

Once in a great while, a fleeting, surreal image 
will catch your eye: a fish frozen into the ice.

Skating on perfect black ice is a rare and wonderful experience. Because it nearly always occurs early in winter, you're always wondering if the ice is thick enough to support your weight. Supposedly only three inches will do it for someone walking, but will that hold true when all that weight's concentrated on a 3/16-inch blade? It only seems to sweeten the experience knowing there's twenty feet of ice water below. As if to remind you, dull thumps and snaps reverberate through the ice as it contracts and shifts.

Outdoor skating's normally confined to a rink—that is, whatever portion of the ice you've managed to clear of snow. But with black ice you have the whole lake. If you're lucky—with extraordinarily smooth ice and some wind at your back—you can coast all the way across the lake.

FROZEN IN TIME
Another wonder of black ice is that you can see what's going inside of it. Here and there cracks wind through the ice like white ribbons on edge, showing its thickness. Bubbles are frozen in time. Once in a great while, a fleeting, surreal image will catch your eye: a fish frozen into the ice. You stop and look, wondering how it could possibly have not been able to swim away as the water, passing from 33 to 32 degrees, started to set around it.   

I know there are other skaters out there. What are your observations?

RECLAIMING WONDER - A New Years Resolution

I believe I'm surrounded by wonders great and small, all the time, wherever I am.

I understand that many of those miracles lie hidden to first glances.

I will open my spirit to wonder. My eyes, my ears, my heart will follow.

I will make time for awareness, curiosity and wonder.

I will turn off the television, put down the book and start looking, learning and living first-hand.

I will decide for myself what entertains me and, more importantly, what nourishes my soul.

I will notice and celebrate the power of presence.   

I will carefully examine the myth of certainty, and value learning more than knowing.

I will be more aware of the miracle of grace that resides around and within every person.

I will shine the light of my own spirit, and will give other people the chance to shine too.

I will try to experience everything as if it were for the first time.

I will approach each day with faith in Nature's instruction, and with gratitude for being Her lifelong pupil.

I will be patient, not just with Nature, but with myself, celebrating small steps in the right direction.