Let the immeasurable come

And, therefore, let the immeasurable come.
Let the unknowable touch the buckle of my spine.
Let the wind turn in the trees,
and the mystery hidden in dirt
swing through the air.
                from "Little Summer Poem Touching the Subject of Faith" by Mary Oliver

As a single woman, I could not sit still, which I recognized as a problem. At the same time, I was drawn to solitary ventures like writing and snapping pictures, or reading and watching people as I savored every last drop from a cup of coffee. For many years, I vacillated between movement and reverie. I ran the trails and streets, and occasionally the high school track, of my beach-side community. Luckily, my 500 square feet of home was in a canyon. The setting forced upon me an intimacy with the grand scale of the universe and, sometimes, in the smallest of things. From time to time, I understood that the universe would patiently reveal its secrets to me if I could but stand in one place. But the canyon trails were irresistible, and I hiked and ran the length of them with such regularity that a neighbor once told me I was in danger of wearing them out.

Then, I met a man. We were of a similar mind when it came to adventure, and he introduced me to rock climbing. My notion of the world suddenly and abruptly shifted, and I was bewitched by its vertical realms. For more than 20 years, we climbed many of the rock faces in our home state and took road trips to climb in others. One fall, we climbed some of the best rock faces in the south of France. Gradually, then abruptly, family life took over, and our sense of adventure shifted. About the same time, I discovered ashtanga yoga. I placed climbing on pause and devoted myself to the ashtanga practice for the next 10 years. A rectangular sticky rubber mat on terra firma replaced my sticky rubber climbing shoes and those vertical walls. I spent the early morning hours barefoot, learning to move my body in this new landscape. Breath by breath my journey traveled inward. The children grew and my husband and I grew older. Now, I consider this labyrinth of movement from a new vantage, grateful to have said yes to all of it. I am ready now for what the poet Gary Snyder calls the great adventure and the first meditation. I am ready to ramble the length of Frost's snowy woods and measure the depth of Thoreau's backyard pond. I am ready, in other words, to go out walking.

Patience/ comes to the bones/ before it takes root in the heart/ as another good idea, writes Mary Oliver, who is like Snyder, another poet and respected guide of nature's pathless realms. In my case, I want to say that patience--this movement toward stillness--took root in both bones and heart at once. But what do I know of my aging skeleton and the whispering it may do in the dark. Perhaps it has been sending out reports for some time, and only now am I catching up with the body's intelligence, feeling my way into the heart of it.

Of course, it must be noted that walking is not stillness. It is more akin to making peace with slowing down or what Snyder calls the exact balance of spirit and humility. Already, I am willing to wager that Oliver's observations of patience will have a role to play in discovering that balance or its tipping point. During the past two months, I have closed the front door behind me and set out on foot to hike in the canyons and hills that abut my home to test these poets' theories and my resolve. In September, I have made plans to hike Mount Whitney with three women, all friends I have met by way of my yoga practice. With some training, persistence and luck, we will hike the 11-mile trek to the summit at 14,505 feet and back down again, gauging the limits of lungs and limbs and to what degree spirit or humility may alter the walker's scale of balance.

Walking is elemental. It is bare bones in the way that most things no longer are. It is a step-by-step progression of one foot in front of the other from departure here to arrival over there. It is quaint and dull and full of mystery. And it takes more time than we think we have. Out walking the first mile, I feel the tug of impatience. The mind wants to be everywhere at once, thrilling from the start at the idea of being done. Walking brings us face to face with the journey. Like sitting down for meditation, the clock ticks and the mind wants any adventure but the one at hand. There is no next series. There are no dynamic postures to post. Right foot, step, left foot, step, right, left again and again. Eventually, a different rhythm emerges, and the conversations that are always happening in nature can be heard. The way the owl I cannot see announces the close of his nocturnal vigil. The cicadas resting in silence until the exact temperature of the sun moves them to a cacophonous thrum. One day out on the trail, it begins to sink in, just how old the dirt is, and how far back we go. Out on the trail, I put my hand to the earth and feel the spark of our intelligence. It is there where I become more certain that we are luminous beings, that we hail from the debris of the stars.

Old cattle fence in Upper Laurel Canyon, Laguna Coast Wilderness

Laguna Coast Wilderness from Serrano Ridge near Little Sycamore Canyon