Autumn is unmistakably descending upon the forest.  The warm, green summer days that were sprinkled with wildflowers, dips in the creek and extended walks in the long slow day light have been silently exchanged for aspen leaves bursting with golden hue, crisp air and the persistently coming darkness of the evening.   

I cherish many elements about the seasons changing, but this one in particular is different, special. Something inside me captures my breath when I see the rich yellow tones of the changing leaves mingled sporadically amongst the stalwart evergreens.  I find myself closing my eyes when I step outside in the mornings as I take in my first breaths of that that fresh air that freeze in my lungs for just a moment.  And one of my absolute favorite images to see is mist filling the forests that are bursting with those colorful aspens and steady evergreens as a gentle curl of smoke drifts outwards and upwards from a nearby chimney.  I tend to love everything about fall, the sights, and the smells, the way it makes you stop and watch for the first few seconds as your warm breath refuses to mix with the cool air.

It’s almost as if the season lends to you its soft heaviness and invites you to take that chance to slow down and to look and to smell and to feel the wonders that it brings.  I find it enchanting…all of it that is except one element of the season…the relentless ever-coming darkness.

This element was made ever so clear to me the other evening as I was driving home in the soft twilight that was far to quickly taken over by strong, black, darkness.  If you have never spent a night in the mountains, I question if you can really understand how black the darkness truly is. Sometimes it’s hollow darkness, other times, it’s swollen with heaviness but always…always it’s completely encompassing.  It’s bold, assertive, and leaves you no choice but to submit.

Earlier today, I found myself sitting across from a youth in a state correctional facility. I sat with him for over an hour and I tried to assess if he would be an appropriate referral for my mental health agency.  He was a bright, friendly kid, honest and polite.  A kid who stated that the first thought in his mind when he wakes up is about his family and that his last thought before he goes to sleep is that he hopes his family is safe.

Trauma, abuse and neglect have all made an appearance in his past.  Nothing we don’t see on an everyday bases, but as this kid listed out for me the number of state mandated placements he has had since the age of four, a list totally about 40 facilities and foster homes, I felt tears well up in my eyes.  His life has primarily been lived out in cold, harsh blackness.  He had been abused when he should have been cradled, neglected when he should have been engaged, humiliated when he should have been encouraged; for him and the countless others like him, they have never felt kindness expressed towards them and most believe something as absurd as love doesn’t even exist and can’t exist.

As one can easily imagine, growing up in darkness has a drastic and lasting impact on the beliefs a child has, the concepts they develop and the behaviors they exert. Behaviors that are harsh and violent…just as the ones they have seen and felt expressed towards them.  This makes them hard to be around and even harder to love.

He’s an artist, the kid I saw I today. An incredibly gifted artist as I could see as I flipped through a sketch book full of his colorful creations that he sheepishly presented me. He has a beautiful smile and a gentle demeanor, a very high IQ and a canny ability to build things.  All bits of daylight that are trying to push through the blackness that has been his life.

It can be hard for those who have lived their lives in the day light to even begin to conceptualize what it’s like for these forgotten children. So for those of you who have been fortunate to have lived your life in the light, be thankful, ever so thankful.  Given a different situation in life and the kid I saw today would be applying to colleges to become an architect or an engineer.  Instead at the age of 15 he has a 4^th grade reading level, a laundry list of assault charges and no one to support him.  So be thankful for your time in the sun, and don’t be so quick to form a negative opinion about someone else…reach out, and try to share some of your light.

A few years ago, a colleague of mine had a conversation with a depressed teen to whom she told she had tremendous hope for. The teen’s response was “I don’t even have hope for myself”. To which my colleague replied, “Well I’m going to hold on to this hope for you until you are able to hold onto it for yourself”.   To we who are able to hold onto that hope, to that daylight for those who cannot, all I can say is that I hope we do…

Summer

It’s been a while since I have sat here and written to you, in fact, almost an entire season has gone by. Searching for a justifiable explanation why it has been all summer since I have done this is precisely because it has been summer.

It seems impossible to describe to you what this season is like. Fields burst alive with knee-high, green grass, aspens stretch out their branches with arm-fulls of perfectly round leaves, and brightly colored, uniquely shaped, wildflowers quietly commandeer an entire hillside.  The air is exquisite, wrapping its warmth around you in the morning, and blowing a breeze of chilly, cool refreshment against your skin in the evening.  

The days are long, providing the perfect invitation to steal away and lose yourself somewhere, anywhere that’s out of doors. The wildlife too take advantage of the season; they seem to strive less. I guess somehow Mother Nature has told them of the plentiful provisions that come after the snow melts and with full confidence they allow themselves to walk slower and lower their guard. 

It seems as though all the forest has reached some state of homeostasis. I remember learning about that one Christmas day during World War I when all sides ceased in their military pursuits and allowed themselves to be at rest long enough to enjoy one day. Well, summer here feels just like that one day. Someone pressed pause on all the ambition, and gave to each one their own perfectly customized respite, mine in particular being a hammock by the creek.

 Although I am a lover of all the seasons, I have caught myself on more than one occasion thinking, “I almost wish it could always be summer”; fruit always ripe, sun always welcoming, the forests always alive.  Summer truly seems to testify to the enjoyment side of life. 

As tired as I am of say this, my life is about to change yet again; one more fork in the road, one more over-turned leaf.  I cannot tell you how desperately I am now longing for stability and routine. Yet part of me knows that, at least to a certain degree all of those desires are elusive…elusive but not exclusive. There have been times in the past and I know there will be times in future when it will be summer.

This season has become to me a symbol, a rainbow of promise. It is proof. It is hope. I can look ahead of me knowing that while there still will be winters to bear, no one can take away the summer that I have had, nor the ones that I will have, because although it will leave me I know without a doubt that it will return; a profoundly reflective picture of the faithfulness of the Inventor of the seasons themselves.

Patience

I have been struggling to write this post for the past few months. In my head, it has changed titles from “failure” to “recovery” and as you can now see, finally arrived at “patience”. As I sit in my sunroom and write this to you now, five inches of heavy, wet snow blanket the trees, the ground and my old creaking deck.

Last week over 300 homes in my mountain town were evacuated due to wild fires. Last week, late in the afternoon, I did not know if we were among those 300. Last week, all those 300 and I’m guessing it’s safe to say that a few more as well, prayed earnestly for even just one inch of rain. Nothing came until now, but now we have five inches of wet, swollen with moisture snow.  Patience.

I believe that possessing patience can be difficult for many situations in life, but it has been my experience that the most challenging situations to exert patience in are the ones in which I have to be patient with myself. As you know, I originally desired to call this post “failure” because I have recently experienced exactly that in more than one area of my life.

I have failed miserably on multiple professional occasions.  The “jump in the deep end and learn to swim” teaching approach that my field uses, usually results in one of two outcomes. Either you hit the ground running, or you take longer to learn; closely resembling the ugly duckling, flailing around in the water trying desperately not to drown. I am one who has been experiencing the later.

I have also failed in my hobby, my sport. What has been my source of stress release for years, almost decades, has turned into a stress inducing activity full of difficulty and strain all because of a few basic mistakes I committed.  In turn they resulted in a debilitating mental infection that I cannot get past and have never experienced before in my life.

Out of all the advice, teaching and reprimands I have come in contact with these past few months, I feel that the most true, the most helpful words are these: “wait until you get board”. That’s it! “Wait until you get board.” In essence, have patience, enough patience that you are patient with yourself.

In our society, at any given moment you will not be hard pressed to find a hundred voices telling you to “Go”, “Just do it”, “Push past it”; to try harder and run faster. Yet of all these hundreds of voices, none of them offer any assurance or guarantee, only the illusion that “time is wasting” and in a culture of “time is money” how dare you take your time. We live in a world that grossly under values patience.

You see at the core of patience is forgiveness and acceptance. Forgiving yourself for the mistakes you made, not ignoring or denying or “catastrophising”, but forgiving. Next, is accepting where you are. I believe truly that this is beyond difficult for so many in our achievement greedy culture, but honestly, what I have learned lately, is that accepting where you are is the most liberating action an individual can actively do.  It’s something I feel that the Buddhist, yoga instructor and deer alike are all much more skilled in doing that I am. But nonetheless, I am learning.

I can’t remember exactly when it was, but some night not too long ago I was driving home in the dark, on the winding roads of my mountain town. Fortunately, I was able to see her in time to stop. Somewhere between the large bend and the steep hill was a massive, beautiful female elk, smack-dab in the middle of the raod.                                                                                                                                                                              

Getting my car safely to a stop, I sat there, gazing at her stunning grace. Slowly, she turned her head to look at me. She was magnificent. Calm, reverent, elegant…patient. Perhaps she felt that she had made a mistake by walking across the road, but by the serenity that I saw in her face, she had clearly forgiven herself of that wrong doing. I can only guess that she wished she was elsewhere, surrounded by the rest of her heard, enjoying the safety of numbers. Yet her lack of anxiety made it clear, she had accepted her road center location. She had, in a matter of seconds, dealt with the safe blame, and arrived at full, prevailing, patience.

She took her time, as you can imagine, crossing to the other side of that road. But before she was gone, she did not fail to beckon me into her peaceful, powerful patience. I was drawn in, lured, invited. She was contagious.

As you also may imagine, I have yet to fully resolve the struggles I have been experiencing and perhaps, much to my chagrin, they will never be “fully resolved”. I also have a thousand and one questions on my horizon for which I so desperately want the answers. Yet every morning when I wake, I have started to take a deep breath, place my hand across my chest, and allow the image of that evanescent elk to fill my mind, while my lips quietly whisper, “Great is Thy faithfulness”.

Sunday Morning

This morning I ate breakfast looking out through the weathered windows of my sunroom. I glanced across the golden grass, the flying hawk, the swift fox and the shadows falling on the creek. But my eyes settled on the tree-covered hill that lay just southeast from my land.  

For a long time, I watched those trees; gazed upon them in an almost fairytale disbelief- yet regardless of my skepticism, those trees were dancing! Swaying together in perfect rhythm; bouncing, coordinated and expressive, oh so expressive!

 As time passed and I continued to watch, they became to me a choir, directed by the great conductor wind himself. Clapping their hands and raising their voices they created a sound that lifted up and melted into the perfect hue of pastel blue that occupied the cloudless sky above them.

As I bite into a soft, speckled pear, their rhythm has changed. They are singing a different song now, a slower song, more reverent. The sunlight seems to enjoy the performance as well.  Joining in, it allows the rays to gently encircle and encompass. Falling down each drop of light grabs onto each branch and every needle, wrapping itself around them and surrendering to the movement as if the light is thrilled and wide eyed with wonder that today, this morning, it gets to be caught up in the expressive motion of those trees.

Remaining rays drip further down, illuminating the deciduous’ soon to be full-of-buds branches.  It warms their surfaces and allows its energy to support the life producing process that has just begun this spring anew.

 I love Sunday mornings…

Ice

I have recently started taking long walks around my property in the coolness of the early mornings. Sneaking out of the quiet house, I bundle myself up and head West, up the hill with my dogs bounding around me. The air is still and fresh, so fresh that it seems that it has just enjoyed a long night of deep, refreshing sleep, and has wakened to present itself anew.

Our walks usually follow the same basic pattern. West up the hill, a visit to the barn then turn North and cross the large granite boulders that offer the perfect vantage point which always results in a rest from the walking. I usually climb one of the boulders and stand upon its top taking in the view of the sun rising over the valley’s edge. Eventually we make our way back South East, include a visit to the creek then back to the house for some breakfast and a hot cup of tea.

Assuming I would once again follow this pattern, I set out one morning not too long ago. Changing my route every so slightly to avoid the too-large piles of snow on the ground, I found myself following the path of the small creek that runs longwise across my lot.

The creek is small, requiring only a large step to cross it, but nonetheless, it appears to take its job in life seriously. It was easy to see from a distance that the creek was frozen solid. Even its miniature falls were crystallized water molecules that formed elaborate and intricate shapes and designs. 

Stopping to appreciate more closely the formation of this frozen water, I bent down, placing my hands directly on the surface. Gradually, I found myself tilting my ear closer and closer to the creek’s surface. Eventually, with my head almost resting on the ice, I confirmed my suspicion, there was still water running beneath the ice. 

Although the frozen top was inches thick and could easily support my weight, it wasn’t all-encompassing. I stayed there for several minutes, with my head next to the ice, almost in disbelief, but at the same time strangely comforted.

 Walking away from that creek, I couldn’t help but feel hopeful. No matter how thick that ice was, the life blood of the creek remained. My thoughts immediately began to travel to the disadvantaged youth I work with. Incarcerated parents, forced foster children, distracted students and victims of adult violence, these children appear in many ways frozen.

 Some have thicker ice than others, but at this stage in their lives, I still hold to the belief that there is running water somewhere inside of them. Be it a child from across town, a genocide survivor, the unwanted with disabilities, or the abandoned bound for a life no child should ever experience, I truly believe that at least while they are still young, their lifeblood isn’t thoroughly frozen…yet.

 I guess this means that I am not a determinist, but I believe you would be hard pressed to find anyone who works in human service a professing determinist. The work may be hard, frustrating and down right unsuccessful at times, but I know now that with whomever I am interacting with, I will not be able to get that sound of muted running water out of my mind.

 It has become a credo if you will. A mantra that the human soul is resilient and worth investing in. A challenge to be persistent and involved. And at the core, a thanksgiving with a realization that the one who created the thick ice across the creek is the same one who cultivated the running water within my own soul.

Reality

There was nothing pastel about this morning’s sunrise. Vibrant purple enveloped the sky only to give way to vivacious orange. The even, colorless clouds gently absorbed every drop of pigment and reflected it back as purely as they could. The frozen lake below seemed to only jump at the chance to be involved and allowed the rays of color to bounce off its opaque chilly surface.

Winter here is astounding. As strange as it may seem, I feel as though the forests are coming alive for the first time since I have lived here. It’s still, quite enough you can hear the snow falling. There is an elegance that mother nature seems to posses this time of year; dignified, pure.

Yesterday I spent the whole of the afternoon sitting in my sun room gazing out at the tree covered hill that creates the boundary of the valley in which I live. Heavy with snow from the recent storm, the tree’s let their branches gently sag with the weight creating a soft picture.

But the wind is what made this day truly magical. Burst of breeze would start at the top of the hill and catching a tree’s snow load it would spiral and spin and drift through the air creating the most graceful coordinated visual I have seen. Multiple gusts would come at the same time producing a dance of perfectly synchronized motion.

It was breath-taking. Yet for all it’s wonder, I had to stop. I had seen interesting, even stunning displays of visual entertainment before. After all, we live in a world that can create anything visual. Explosion, creations, buildings falling, planets becoming, stars bursting. But none of those synthetic visuals, grand as they may have been, could even begin to compare to my wind and my snow. 

I believe that I have been tapping into the why of this situation for several months, but it took until now for it to truly materialize into words. And the reason is simply this. The snow blowing in the wind was real. I stood wide-eyed a mere fifty yards away. I could have touched it. And oh how my soul rejoiced. There was nothing fabricated about it. That perfect sunrise was genuine, not the result some simulated computer program.

It was real. And perhaps I didn’t realize how desperately I need this reality until I was bathed in it. It’s strange for sure, but we have become so good at our simulations that most of us believe we no longer need the real thing. Life becomes a testament to the synthetic. Our foods are processed, our cities are controlled, our yards fenced, our animals caged, our friendships virtual.

But trust me when I say there is a difference. Just as there is a difference between fluorescent lighting and the pure, powerful rays that drip from the sun. You can take all the time you need to convince yourself they are the same, but in truth, they are far from it. One is man’s meager attempt to produce, the other is nothing short of the Creator’s personally inhabited creation. 

We have lost the wonder, the ability to feel awe. We have become so small-minded we can no longer close our eyes and say “what if…” We have lost our perspective on ourselves, our world and our environment. I believe it is no coincidence that our Creator told us we could find Him in Nature. How tragic that we have since so separated ourselves from nature and as a result, so separated ourselves from that pure interaction with our Creator. 

We did this to ourselves, then we sit and wonder why our relationships don’t last, why our spirituality is gone, and why our society is racked with problems and filled with disease. We have achieved generations of individuals who suffer from Nature-deficient disorder.

And so finally, at the age of 25, I have started embarking on this journey, the pursuit of what is real. Believing the same message that Pinocchio and the velveteen rabbit alike championed, that no matter how great something may seem, it’s inevitably and eternally better when it’s real.

Learning

 As I’m sure you can imagine, I have been pushing my boundaries lately. Learning something new is volatile, embarrassing, and has the unlimited potential to make you feel like a twelve year old… in every sense of the word. Yet learning new things is immensely beneficial to the human condition, offering everything from the removal of unwarranted pride to the prevention of degenerative brain disorders. Some would even say that it’s a necessary part of life…but I have recently come to disagree with that mentality.

Perhaps it’s a necessary part of early life, but once an individual is establish in a particular career, town, house, hobby and circle of friends, seldom does that person actually arrive at the place where they can say they are learning something NEW. More often that not, we avoid being a student of anything with impressive diligence, diligence that holds unmeasurable potential if it were directed towards a different goal.

But why? I believe the answer to be simple and it is that we simply do not like feeling clueless. We cherish the moments in life in which we know the answers, have the pattern memorized. We don’t like feeling vulnerable, or having to say “I have no idea how to do this”. For some reason, we have come to equate those precious moments of teach-ability with weakness, and thus rarely venture to allow ourselves to be taught.

There is a mama bear who has chosen my neighborhood as a choice location to spend her days. I think she is attracted to the large trees, low population and the little stream that boarders my property. Something about this place makes her feel safe. A few weeks ago, mama bear thought that it was time for her two cubs to learn the art of fishing, and what better place to teach them than in our little stream. And I can tell you from the sudden decrease in fish population in our stream, that not only did she teach them well, but that they were receptive to learning.

Learning is such a natural part of nature, and I truly am baffled when I think of how removed it has become from our society. Our forefathers had one up one us in this sense. Living close to nature perpetuates learning, constantly having to adapt, change and LEARN about the environment and it’s ever changing personality. Our distance from the natural world has no doubt taken away this wonderful opportunity for embracing the art of learning.

 I know it’s risky, intimidating and easily avoidable, but trust me when I say that you will benefit immensely should you be so bold as to ride yourself of the daily pride we protect ourselves with, pack some humble pie for lunch and head off to expand your knowledge or skill. Because heck, once you throw pride out the window, what have you got to loose?

The stream in which the fish no longer live...incidentally called "Cub Creek"