Ridge hike

Last Sunday I hiked up my favorite hill right outside of town.  I don't know why, but a half mile in I turned and followed an abandoned road up a steep hill.  Mostly I avoid roads because they don't offer the experience of being in the trees, and that is what I crave.  This road paralleled the ridge I usually walk, so I had some confidence I would be able to climb a little further east and get on top, maybe somewhere different from my usual hike.

Sure enough, about a mile east I saw an opening leading into the dense brush.  Soon I was climbing an obscure trail toward the ridge line.  As I topped out, I saw a man standing there at the summit.  He asked me if I was almost done with my hike.  The weather was closing in and I assume he was thinking I met get caught in it.  "Depends on where the day takes me I guess," I told him.

I turned west and soon found myself on a two-lane blacktop road.  The trail didn't connect to my ridge line.  I knew it was out there though, off to my right.  So as the weather closed in and the rain started to fall I got into my rain gear and wandered down the road, scanning to the right for the classic tell-tale; a space in the brush, an narrow opening, a wider than average space between two trees.  It was raining hard, and no one was about.

Sure enough, I saw it, about a half mile on: a barely- there opening between the trees.  I jumped the ditch at the side of the road and stepped up onto the trail.  Walked into the deep trees.  Rain tapped on my hat and coat and the tall Douglas Firs swayed  in the south west breeze with a shushing sound, a sound I've always known.  The woods were dark and the trail disappeared into mist about a hundred yards out.

Everything fell away, except the rhythm of my movement, and the swaying trees, dripping rain.  Mist before and behind closed my attention down to this place and time.  I joined the ridge trail and turned west. And for another hour, every step was home.

Indeterminacy

Thursday morning, driving up I-5 to work, I spent the entire trip in an agitated, desperate state, thinking about a situation at work, only to find upon arriving at the office that it wasn't at all what I thought it had been.  On another day I spent an hour in fear, about a voice mail on my phone that I  didn't want to play because I assumed it was bad news about my mother.  When I played the message, I discovered the news was good; my mother is doing well, and is coming home from the hospital.

Sometimes I wonder if we get attached to these mistaken perceptions of what's happening in our world partly because facing the truth can be humbling. The truth is that we are capable of making assumptions about our world that are wildy mistaken. On top of that, the emotions can be so convnicing that we forget to look at the evidence, which is the events that we actually know about.

The power over these states, of course, is the deceptively simple act of bare attention.  Lately, when I find my mind racing, I ask myself, "what is happening now?"  The question has a powerful way of reminding me that almost all of the moments in my life are beautiful, quiet and loving.  The hard moments can so hard, but the truth is that the overwhelming majority of the moments in my life are magical opportunities to watch the leaves fall, see the rain clouds lower the sky, or feel joy on seeing a loved one.

What is happening now?  I'm sitting in my little pub, writing this column.  Outside, there is a row of maple trees, yellow with autumn.  As I watch, a single leaf floats down from one of them every time there is a breeze.  A heavy, dark porter sits next to my computer and every sip is a subtle dance of aroma, flavor and texture.  Elizabeth smiled at me, Dan asked me about my day, and Diane hugged me, like she always does.

Noticing

Work has been so stressful lately that I haven't been sleeping, and I can feel my health going down.  I've been doing a slow breathing exercise, taking my breaks and trying to respond differently when the hard stuff starts to happen.  Sometimes it's hard to follow through. It would be so much easier to just stumble through the day. I feel stressed and discouraged and I wonder, is it working?

This morning I sat down at my desk and opened my computer, logged on and went to email.  It's a ritual I've done every work day for many years now.  Catch up on emails, update my to do list, review the day's calendar.  Then I go for coffee.

Today something else happened.  As I read my emails, I noticed myself speeding up inside. The feeling was fast and tight. I could feel my shoulders tightening up, my breath getting short and fast.  There were emotions too.  There was anticipation, excitement and familiarity, because I love my job.  But I also noticed tension tinged with dread, the way you might feel if you were stepping into the ring for a boxing match.

I pushed my chair away and sat back, just noticing the tightness, the short breaths, and the dread. I brought my attention the moment. There was sunlight just beginning to color the sky, and I could hear people in the lobby, greeting each other, starting their day.  And I realized, felt in my body, that this moment was such a good moment, a sweet time.  I felt myself slow down inside, felt the dread dissipate.  There was stressful stuff today, but there was a small, still place in me.  I noticed how meaningful it is when I answer a question or give encouragement.  And on my break I noticed how the maple leaves are only beginning to turn red, and some are still varied shades of green.

Is it working?

Yes.

Mole Sauce

On Sunday, I made Mole.  Mole is a sauce used in Latin-American cooking.  The main ingredients are tomatoes, peppers and unsweetened chocolate.  But there are also lots of spices, and the process of making mole involves steps and processes that balance all the flavors.

I began by turning on the music, as I do every time I cook.  This morning it was jazz, brought to me by our local public radio station here in Eugene, KLCC.  To the haunting voice of Sarah Vaughn, I toasted Ancho and Guajillo peppers, sesame seeds and slivered almonds.  Then came Cumin, Cloves, Thyme and Oregano.  Then onions, garlic and tomatoes, all in the proper order, all with their own process.

The house began to smell like magic.  Charlie Parker’s sax provided background as the spices muddled.  Outside, the sun shone with autumn clarity as I sautéed and simmered all the subtle ingredients.  My home felt warm and spicy as I sprinkled chocolate into my simmering sauce, the last step.  I dipped out a small taste with my wooden spoon.  It was perfectly balanced, thick and tomato-y, the spices coming through in layers.  I ate some more, right out of the pot, just to savor the way the spices happened in my mouth, one after the other.

Three hours had gone by since I started.  It is a very curious sensation, when time goes away.  Tasting my mole, I had the sense that I had a put in a lot of work, done many steps.  But I had no sense of those three hours passing.  I put the mole away, put on my jacket, and walked into town under soaring maple trees bright with autumn leaves.

The Crux

This is my first day back at the climbing gym in many months.  The ritual is so familiar, a comfort really: dress down to t-shirt, loose jeans, and bare feet.  Get climbing shoes and chalk bag out of my day pack, find a quiet place, stretch out.  Then chalk up, lace on the shoes and start reading routes.  Once I set hands and feet to the wall, I am instantly entranced.  Even on “easy” routes, I have to shift my center of balance and use my core to make the holds work.  The intricacy and the physicality of it are completing absorbing.

From the moment my foot leaves the floor until the moment it touches down again, I am completely in the flow of balance and sequence. One route has a huge lumpy place in the wall, the only hold available.  To make it work, I must shift my center just so, palm the rounded shape and trust friction to keep me on.  These holds never feel like they’re going to work.  I just have to make peace with that feeling of “I’m about to fall off.”  When it works, and I ascend, it feels like flying.

I climb until I can’t even close my hands around the holds anymore.  Outside, the thought stream begins to come back, but it is not as insistent, or as convincing, as before.  I’m reminded that anything that puts me in the flow is not just a break from the thought stream.  Each time I enter the flow, it changes me, and I take a little bit of it with me, back to the everyday world.