As I hiked through the deer-trodden and human-trodden paths along White Clay Creek, I felt frustrated; I couldn’t seem to find a location that was good enough to be “my spot” for the semester. I wanted to get away from manmade objects (telephone wires, dams, fences, etc.) so I could feel immersed in nature, but I also wanted a location that would be relatively convenient to get to every week.
After my legs were sufficiently scathed by thorns and stinging nettle (I realized the paths along the creek were not as clear as they were last year and I wondered why), I turned around with hopes of entering further down the road and finding a more satisfactory spot. Just then, I noticed an enormous millipede marching along the path. I stopped and stared until it disappeared into the grass. Above it, bees pollinated green-head coneflowers, their yellow fur in a sunshine spotlight on the matching yellow petals. A bit further down the path, I saw a toad hop forward. I remained still and watched it leap between two tree roots. A moment later, I saw a group of about 9 ducks waddling through the grass—it looked like they were playing follow the leader! This felt very special; I had the privilege to peer into their lives for a moment, and forget about myself. I watched them intently as they nibbled on plants, their heads darting back and forth almost comically. When one looked at me and tilted its head I couldn’t help but smile. I felt my ego slipping away. Suddenly, it didn’t matter that I could see a wire running through the tree leaves or hear the dam just a few yards away; there was so much life around me. Suddenly, I wasn’t judging my self or my surroundings.
Suddenly, every spot was good enough.
I turned around and began walking toward the creek again, appreciating the occasional stinging nettle burn for making me feel alive with a visceral reaction. I halted in my tracks when I spotted a beautiful pearl crescent butterfly perched on a leaf in the sunlight, opening and closing its wings as if to show off. One of its wings was slightly damaged, making its flight even more beautiful and triumphant.
I returned to the path along the creek, sat down, closed my eyes, and listened: insects, dam, airplane, birds. I felt: slight breeze, spotted sunshine through the branches, muggy air swallowing me, sand beneath me, leaves tickling my arm. I opened my eyes and observed: leaves floating slowly down the creek, sunlit reflections of trees in the water, countless shades of green, a fallen sycamore as white as snow—leaning elegantly, slightly sunken into the creek, contrasting life and death, artful, serene—lady’s thumb smartweed beside me, black walnut trees and hickory trees above me, a newspaper ad half buried in the sand (“ALL WEEK PRICE BREAK, On Sale Sat. 8/23”), yellowing leaves periodically falling gracefully into the creek—spinning, landing, creating ripples. I smiled. I breathed. I appreciated. I thought of Mary Oliver’s poem “The Summer Day,” and her musings about “pay[ing] attention,” “kneel[ing] down in the grass,” and “be[ing] idle and blessed” with the spirituality of nature.
My body and my mind synchronized: a feeling I yearn to experience more often. So much of my life happens within my mind, I often forget I am a physical body. I focused on my breathing, and thought about my heart beating and my blood flowing through my body. I don’t have a body; I am my body (as Eckhart Tolle teaches). I’m a living being, just like the ducks and the stinging nettle and the butterfly.
Now, thoughts start flowing freely and openly as I sit next to the creek and write. My mind drifts naturally to a memory from this past winter during my study abroad trip to India. We trekked in the Himalayas, from a town near Darjeeling into a small hiker’s lodge in Nepal where we spent the night. After huddling around the fire sipping on tea and listening to our professor tell stories from Hindu mythology, I remember going to bed wishing I had spent more alone time on the mountain. At 3:58am I woke up, and I knew I had to go outside. I felt pulled with an intensity that was entirely new to me. It was as if I didn’t consciously decide to go outside, as if I was simply listening to the universe. Even after my watch malfunctioned and my flashlight broke, I didn’t hesitate. I put on my shoes, bundled up, and ventured out into the darkness. I felt my way to the top of the hill where we had looked upon the Kanchenjunga mountain range during sunset the previous night. I sat down. The only things I could hear were the wind and the occasional rustling around of farm animals.
It was a new kind of quiet for me. It was beautiful. However, I remember feeling as though the sound of my breath was disruptive, as though I was ruining the serenity, selfishly and intrusively. But something spoke to me in that moment and placed the word “unity” in my mind with amazing clarity. I let go of my ego, as I simply existed in the Himalayas. I appreciated my breath as something that coexisted with my surroundings, not something that interrupted them. My breath contributed to everything, mingling with the wind. I blended into the nature around me. While I haven’t been able to define God with certainty since 4th grade, I now come to the realization (after talking about it with someone I love very deeply) that this is a huge part of what God is to me—transcending, letting go of ego, blending, opening up, existing, appreciating—
The breeze just picked up, seemingly in response to what I was writing. How wonderful.