Lessons from the Mountain - Late July
A 'Moderate' hike was the prescribed label, a view and green the relief.
My partner asked me in earnest if I thought I could do it, excited to surpass the last few climbs, 'Easy'. I have done Moderate hikes before this one, in fact I've done hikes that I believe were more difficult than this. You must understand how broken my body feels, and has become, in only a year's time.
So of course, I am the daughter of Jove, always doing those 'glorious' things, this should be feasible. My mind decides before checking in with my body, my mind decides based on the logic that I had done this before.
When I say I hobbled the last mile, I am not being hyperbolic (though that is typically the case). Both heels and toes pinching with fat blisters, ankles and calves rigid and tight without the confidence the previous mile held. A back swaying with the breeze, curved sharp scythe digging into the meat.
The trail was a loop, yes, but I would argue the climbing down was steeper, rockier, wilder, and sharper than the way up. Up you have things to hold, grab, roots, wayward treelings, hands. Down there is less, and short of both crawling and sliding, the risk of tumbling builds. I am not unfamiliar with tumbling, but the torn edges of boulders do not make for confident footholds.
Luckily for me, I am easily distractable. Most especially so if I am surrounded by beautiful forests and plants. I found the lowland blueberries quickly, as I had been practicing identifying them in our yard at home and around. It wasn't until we climbed about halfway that I saw fruit on the bushes. Tiny blue, purple, and green beads tossed along the trail, blending in against their dense foliage.
I took two at first, one for each of us, and we ate them together, in the same moment. Just one berry held more flavor and texture than the dozen pints from Canada, 15 miles off in the local supermarket. Slick with sweat, swatting lazily at flies and mosquitos, I looked forward to the next blueberry. I continued on like this up the mountain, stopping periodically to savor a single blueberry.
While we were having a 'gas station snack' picnic at the top (Pistachios, Protein Cookie, Granola Bar, Jerky) I thought for a little while about the blueberries.
As we packed up our trash, and the trash of some strangers, my partner looked over at me. He watched me pour the last quarter of my water out onto the nearby blueberry plant. He looked dumbfounded.
"We still have to hike ALL the way back down. Do you have any more water?"
I still don't think he fully understands, but in that moment I did.
The routine of the practice, cleaning the space, cleaning the dishware, the utensils, placing the offering. Saying the words. The smoke. The bells. The act itself is a part of the offering.
The act of climbing to a place of shade, enduring, enjoying, sharing.
A meal, a feat, a moment, a life. Oh yes, the act itself is a part of the offering. What is a cup of water from the sink, from the well? Yes an offering, yes a useful one. But what is the cost? To me?
I am not suggesting, those rushing ahead, that every offering, or even MOST offerings have to come at some great cost. This to me seems foolish, and overwhelmingly unnecessary.
But I am suggesting that sometimes, especially in times when you're looking for direction or clarity, that you offer more.
I had water in the car, I had just finished quite a bit, and I knew there were blueberries on the way down. I wasn't overly concerned myself, but I did acknowledge there had been risk involved.
It was an act of devotion, which are not often those of clarity and logic in my experience. I trust in myself, in my partner, in the Mountain. And I got back to the car, eventually, and the water was so sweet. I drank with a thirst that I had not felt in a long time, I drank with such a feeling of thankfulness. I drank with a creeping of guilt. I sat with all of that until I fell asleep.
I slept, and slept, and slept.
And I did not even dare to dream with the sheer exhaustion of my accomplishment.
