“What could I say to you that could be of
value, except that perhaps you seek too much, that as a result of your seeking
you cannot find.”
–
Siddhartha, Herman Hesse
It was the ninth hour of our trek across
Rocky Mountain National Park. My friend curled on the ground against a rock.
Surrounded by the inky darkness, it was difficult to discern boulder from
person though he rested only a few feet away. In our small enclave, a few short
stout pines clung to the earth and stood strong against a howling wind. With a
shiver, I reluctantly concluded that it was time to leave our final
protectorate and venture toward the summit of Flattop Mountain.
The idea was to simplify existence, if only
for a day. We planned to travel with minimal provisions and supplies. We would
just walk and then walk some more until we reached Grand Lake. After all, John
Muir made extended treks into the High Sierra with nothing but a loaf of bread. Inuit apprentice shamans ambled across the
Arctic for days on vision quests. Jesus wandered the wilderness unsupported. Of
course, sometimes such ideas seem more logical in theory, less so in practice.
As it were, I found myself slogging uphill on
an ice-packed trail into a vicious Rocky Mountain wind in the middle of the
night. My headlamp cast forth enough light to see a few steps ahead but paled
in comparison to the crushing night. Our chatter of adventures and beauty
stilled, replaced solely by determined effort to place one foot in front of the
other.
An hour after leaving our final shelter, we
came to a wooden sign indicating an overlook. Though we pointed our headlamps
into the abyss, there was nothing to be seen other than light disappearing into
darkness. We inched toward the edge and
craned our necks. As I peered into the
vastness, the vastness peered back with a gaze so immediate and penetrating
that the exposure sent a shudder down my spine. Dread fired through every fiber
in my body. What, exactly, have I gotten
myself into?
At this time of Lenten reflection, I wonder
what might happen if our inner experience of religion mirrored such an outer
experience of wilderness. What if we wandered into the terrain of our souls
with only a minimal supply of certainty? What if we simplified our theologies
by removing our armor of words and explanations, our security of hopes and
petition? Yes, we may find a vastness and groundlessness that makes us shudder
and leaves us feeling cold and alone. But my hunch is that we might experience
something more.
Back at the edge of the abyss, I soldiered
enough courage to stand my ground before the vast elemental forces of the
earth. The feeling of dread slowly faded away. In its place a growing sense of
wildness and freedom and power took root. Sure, I was freezing cold in the
pitch dark on the side of a mountain in the middle of a wind storm. True, what
we originally sought was a sunrise view from the summit and a victory trek down
to Grand Lake. And yes, by the following afternoon we had attained both of
these goals. However, the true inspiration, the true power emerged not from
gaining what we sought, but from experiencing what we found. As the darkness
and wind penetrated straight through all our plans and ambitions, we uncovered
a core experience as enlivening as mysterious. And there, the division between
the inner and outer terrain blurs.
“The power of such a mountain is so great and
yet so subtle that, without compulsion, people are drawn to it from near and
far, as if by the force of some invisible magnet; and they will undergo untold
hardships and privations in their inexplicable urge to approach...the center of
this sacred power.”
– Lama Anagarika Govinda
