Slow It Down

In his first summer in the Sierra, John Muir was hired to help shepherd a flock of sheep up into the mountains. He mused about the rocks and the trees, the clouds, and the majesty of Yosemite.

 There are many reasons I enjoy reading Muir, but perhaps more than anything else, it is because he serves to remind me of pace. More specifically, to slow...it...down.

 A slower pace allows us to draw focus to the present, to identify certain patterns and habits that are done unconsciously, and to highlight areas of strength or deficit. I believe this applies across all spectra - everything from clinical practice, to yoga, to a walk in the woods.

It can be challenging to be more deliberate in thought and action. There is often an inverse relationship between doing things well and doing them quickly. This does not mean we need to become like the tortoise all of the time (although there is case to be made for why he wins), but rather to practice taking a page out of John Muir’s book once in a while:

"Life seems neither long nor short, and we take no more heed to save time or make haste than do the trees and stars. This is true freedom, a good practical sort of immortality."

Behold, The Sea

I prefer to consult the ocean in the early morning or at the close of day. Having grown up along the sandy shores of New Jersey, the rumbling of the Atlantic is sometimes more familiar than my own voice. It has been the canvas against which much of my life has been painted. It was the standard against which I measured depth and I challenged Fear.

I have borne witness to its most peaceful stillness and its most apocalyptic rage. It has taught harsh lessons and served as quiet counsel. Emerson has described the sea as “the nourisher of kinds, purger of earth, and medicine of men,” and I am inclined to agree with him.

 The Oregon coast is colder, more rugged, and its shores far greener.  As yet, I’ve had little experience with the Pacific. Beneath the differences, the smell of the salt air and the sound of the waves has the same power to “wash out harms and griefs from memory.”

 In a time where a sense of uncertainty, turmoil, and unbridled hate saturates our news and our discourse, it is more important than ever to come into the peace of wild things.

Chop Wood, Listen to Water

The are few things more satisfying than chopping wood. The swing of the axe, the feel of the strike, the sound and smell of the split. It is an ancient task, and one that requires presence. Considerations of bodily safety, the accuracy and force of the strike, the surrounding environment, and how much wood of what size is needed demand clarity of focus.

There are few things more insightful than taking the time to listen to a mountain stream. In cultivating a stillness, quieting the mind, and allowing the ears to open, we can start to hear what the natural world is saying. This is one way that Nature can teach patience and presence, and remind us that we are not separate from, but a part of the world.

There is a well-known Zen proverb that acknowledges that both before and after Enlightenment we must “chop wood and carry water.” I believe it is meant as a metaphor, reminding us that the true practice comes in performing daily tasks with mindfulness.

I also believe it is essential to sometimes literally go out and chop wood and to take the time to listen to water. In this way, we can cultivate presence in both action and stillness, and remind ourselves of the need for both.