walking contemplation – Contemplative Seeing

A Sea Chanty

Today I felt drawn to the sea, so I headed down the valley to Muir Beach. I spotted this bench, the tiny shiny rectangle on the hill, and decided to claim it as my meditation spot.

As I sat, listening to the sea and wind, tasting the salt, I would occasionally lift my eyes and take in the waves running ashore. I watched the patterns of spindrift and seafoam. They formed and reformed, never the same shapes, always restless.

Looking farther out to sea, I could see swells and the surfers. Beyond them, I saw the deep waters over the San Andreas Fault, the Farallon Islands, and at last, the churning seas of the ill-named Pacific Ocean.

I wondered at the bubbles, and took in the immensity of the ocean. I puzzled at their entanglement. How does one beget the other? Part of a chant by Paramahansa Yogananda popped into my mind:

Wave on the sea, dissolve in the sea; Wave on the sea, dissolve in the sea. I am the bubble, make me the sea; I am the bubble make me the sea.

So, since it seemed to answer my question, I began to chant quietly. Then, as I realized the wind and waves were loud and I was alone perched on my bench, I started to chant louder. Soon, I sang full voiced into the wind. Make me the sea, oh make me the sea! I am the bubble, make me the sea!

I quieted into meditation but soon sensed some hikers lurking behind me, evidently coveting my bench. I relinquished it and walked the beach, studying the bubbles and the sea.

This is not a beach known for shells, but I found an intact keyhole limpet. I gave it to a little girl in a periwinkle sweater who tucked it into her pocket. She pulled out a bit of broken mussel shell to show me the amazing nacre hidden inside. Our small shared joy surrounded us like sunlight.

The ego takes a walk

I decided that it was time to take my “real” camera with me on my walks so I could take “good” pictures. Well, someone else came along as well . . . my ego. Suddenly, I was humpfing over the flat midday light and fiddling with the depth of field. I was hunting, not being. And while I was at it, now that I had a camera, that freed up my phone for other purposes: I was checking my email on the trail.

Down, girl. Breathe.

Since I couldn’t resist the email, I learned, standing there on the side of the mountain, that a friend had died. Well, that changed things.

The camera was slung over my shoulder and forgotten. Phone stuck in a back pocket. Breath choked into a few guttural sobs. I looked around at God’s creation and gave thanks for all who are still here and for all who have ever walked the Miwok Trail and for all who walk here no longer.

Sometimes a walk is just a walk, sometimes it’s a marvel, and sometimes it’s a lesson.

What the rocks told me

As I was walking, I saw a wall of stone. It had grown in sober layers, lying politely horizontal for millennia as a slow accretion of sandstone built it massive and immoveable.

Then suddenly, with some violent burst upending the earth’s crust, part was thrust giddily skyward while part lodged deep into the unbreathing earth. The stone said, “Fear not: neither the heights nor the dive! Sometimes we are turned topsy turvy and then we either get a better view, or we learn surprising secrets. All shall be well.”

I saw another face of stone. This one said to me, “Aha! I see that your face, like mine, is deeply lined. We have seen life, you and I. Those smooth young stones, they don’t know what they’re in for. Don’t worry about the wrinkles. And all shall be well.”

I saw a third wall of stone. This one had toppled flat and become a sort of natural paving. It was worn, barely visible. I squinted to make it out, a fossil of its former grandeur. The stone said, “Do not pity me in my humility. All creatures who pass must walk on me and most don’t even notice, unless they stumble. But I get to feel the weight of their sorrow and the spirit of their joy. I have become the Earth. And all manner of thing shall be well.”

So that’s where St. Julian of Norwich got it, that anchoress sealed away in the walls of her church: the stones told her. All shall be well and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.

Sitting with a sister creature

I was walking along the Tennessee Valley Trail trying out James Finley’s suggestion for mystic contemplation, inhaling the Universe’s goodness with “I love you” and exhaling back my own “I love you.” I glanced down and there in the center of the path stretched the tiniest garter snake I had ever seen. She did what snakes usually do: bolted for the grass on the side of the path. But then, she stopped. She just stayed there on side of the trail. I stood for a long time, watching her. Then I wondered if she would mind if I sat down.

I sat down. The snake stayed. There we were, two sister creatures, two vestiges of God’s creation, as St. Bonaventure says. We enjoyed the same sun on our backs. We both put our faces to the breeze. The snake slowly waved her head back and forth. I wondered what garter snakes eat when they are too tiny to eat a mouse. I exhaled, “I love you.” She exhaled, “I love you, too.”

I stuck my foot out from where I was sitting and took this picture just so you could see how tiny this snake was.

It was a busy day on the trail. People tramped by talking politics and relationships. The snake and I just stayed.

Finally, slowly, slowly, she crept into the grass; so slowly that I had to watch for a while to see her progress. I couldn’t actually see her move. And then, with a sudden silent whoosh, she was gone.

And I continued on my way.