Whirl

One Sunday a few years back, I was supposed to meet my son. We were going to go hiking in the Hocking hills. But the vagrancies of teenage planning and the allure of a new girlfriend, drew him on to other things. So, at noon on a beautiful day, I found myself hiking alone for the first time in years. I started out as I have many hikes in recent years: here was an objective, a task, a problem—to get from point A to point B in the most expedient manner. With that goal firmly fixed in my head I began at a rapid pace. Passing other hikers, and not allowing myself to be distracted by anything along the way.

But this was the first hike of the year, and my muscles were not as disciplined as my mind. So, in due time, fate brought me to a seat on a moss covered stone, beneath a canopy of green.And as I sat there, gazing upon a boulder the size of a house, my eye fixed upon a single tree. The small tree was struggling to maintain a tenuous purchase upon the southern slope of the boulder’s side. It had germinated in the moss and managed to grow in this very untenable position for a number of years. The sampling’s roots wrapped and gripped the side of that boulder in a desperate attempt to outlast it.

Before me was this slow motion drama—sure to go on for a few more years—wrapped in a pageantry of texture and color: greens and grays, pits and crevasses. I was struck with both a sense of joy, and sorrow.

Joy at having once again discovered the very type of thing which led me into the woods in the first place. These moments of sensual clarity help to define our conscious existence; for me they bring the essence of life into sharp focus.

My sorrow came upon realizing that perhaps the reason I was hiking alone this day was because I had failed to head that lesson. Perhaps I’d been so busy rushing towards the end of the trail, I’d lost the beauty of the trail itself. Perhaps on Sunday’s past, I should have taken a younger son’s hands and laid them upon the very same boulder. I should have taken to time to guide his senses.

Our senses are a wonderful gift. Very rarely do we take the time to really use them. To carry ourselves into the moment and allow all of our sensory channels to focus upon the now, the place, the feel of this very slice of our existence.

If you are very lucky, you may be able to train your senses to do this on a regular basis. You may develop your awareness in a way that builds a continuous, flowing museum of sound, color, fragrance, and texture.

If you are very, very lucky, you may even teach those you love to do the same.

© 2007 by Rodney Gleghorn. All rights reserved.