Grass Lake #5

The path was carpeted in green and gold today, crunching and tossing as I kicked through the alder leaves. It is a glorious day for a walk, and the blue sky provides a contrast to the leaf litter below. The alders are mostly naked, now, somehow more authentic. The colors and shapes of their wood become more apparent, once the leaves have fallen and the light let through. The alder bark reminds me of the ways some horses are dappled in shades of grey. Light and dark, the colors create their own shadowplay, and tufts of green stick out jauntily to and fro. I look up, and see that there are still some leaves high in the treetops, but they are singular now, the last to holdout.

I think about how these alders live her, filling in the low open spaces. The humus beneath my boots is thick, and dark, and squishy. The mud pulls at my feet, as if it wants me to stay awhile, and visit. How many layers of leaves have gone before, creating this land filling the spaces, feeding their descendants? I know that alders are not old trees, and this wood here may be filling in an old lumber site, or and old swamp. It is still fairly mature for an alder wood, though, and many old alders already have fallen over, to do their part in the humus building project.

I smile down at the leaves, thinking about the magnitude of what has gone before us. So many autumns, since long before there were people to call it so. Before the deciduous trees, there were conifers, and other life that made the soil rich and lush. All things returned to their roots, so to speak.

In the mud there is a print: a hoof print. It is large, as such things go, and I wonder if it is the stag I chased from my yard yesterday. It was a young buck, with only five points, but he was muscular and strong, and had little fear of me. When I yelled out from my back porch, he only retreated a few steps, challenging me with a steady gaze to come out and face him like a deer. I had to find my shoes first, but he was patient, and didn’t really believe that I would dare to come out to meet him. When I jumped off the porch he leapt one way, then another. He ran forward a few steps, and turned to see if I would really run him off. I am a gardener; it is a matter of pride. I ran after him until he headed under the apple tree and across the street. He was much thicker around than other deer I have chased away. I have not been so close to a buck, not in this season. He was in his prime, and I got to stand him down.

This mud makes good footprints. I follow them along the path, up a hill and into the first small fir grove. The trees are short here, at the crest of the path, and there is much space between them. The air is still, and dry and yet there is a different sound up here. The firs are shedding their needles, and they hit the ground with a steady tapping reminiscent of rain. But there is no splash in this sound, no plop. There is no juicy wetness in the rhythm, no spatter, no tonal range. More than anything, it reminds me of sleet on a very cold day, when it almost bounces as it hits. The sun in the branches seems to be encouraging the needles to shed, because when I come to the more mature fir grove, dark, mysterious and shady, the shedding becomes quiet and still.

The path is even muddier here, and I continue to see footprints as I walk. As I keep my eyes out for them, I realize that the prints have changed. Now, there are not hoofprints; there are pawprints. I assume they of a dog, or a coyote, and wish I had learned more about tracking in my life. I follow the prints down to the flats, where they disappear for a while. Several years back, there was a cougar in these woods. I wonder if I could tell the difference between a dog print and that of a cougar. Probably not. I wonder if I should be scared. I stop, take a deep breath, and listen.

The air is full of birdsong and frogs. I hear the chattering of squirrels as they stock up on seeds for the winter. The wood around me is quiet, but I don’t feel any sense of alarm in the nearby energy. In front of me, in a shaft of sunlight, spider webs are strung between the branches like holiday decorations. They shine in the sun like silver.

As I head back up the trail, the sun over my left shoulder, I notice just how low in the sky it is. It never really gets very high anymore; mornings turn into afternoons without much of a high noon at all. What sun does shine on us in the Pacific Northwest in autumn is thin, without much strength, and liable to disappear before you know it. In fact, as the gate comes into view, I see an imposing steel cloudbank coming down the ridge. The wind picks up a little, and I am glad of my timing. I will be home before the rain begins. Sure enough, as I pick up my computer to write down my thoughts, the rain sweeps like a curtain through the neighbors yard and into ours, and I get a chance to compare the sound of it falling to pattering sounds of the fir needles on my walk.

Grass Lake #4

I went back to the cedar grove today, inspired by the brilliant autumn sunshine and the bright blue of the sky. I couldn't have asked for a better day to walk, and my steps were light as I entered the wood. So much of the sky is now visible through the trees, and there are more leaves on the ground than there are left on the branches. The aspen trees warn of winter, and their skeletal white branches look dead, although they are merely slumbering. Even the blackberries are beginning to say goodbye to the sunshine and the summer, as autumn colors begin to tint their leaves with warm yellows and oranges. The deciduous forest has it's own character, and the golden glow seems to broadcast the warmth of summer, although the air itself is brisk and cool.

As I enter the conifers, the variations on the theme of green take my breath away. In the brighter light of sunshine, as it filters down through dark needles and cones, there are more kinds of green than I have words to describe. The mosses along the ground fairly glow with neon brilliance, and the laurels and rhodies keep secrets in their shiny dark grey-green leaves. There are many dark shiny leaves here, reminding me that conifers are not the only evergreen in these western Washington woods. Much of the deciduous undergrowth has yet to succumb to the season, although there is a sense of translucence to their color, a turning down of hue, as the green begins to contemplate the yellow it will become. There are alder leaves along the trail, many of them still green, that must have fallen in the high winds that whip through these woods. They mingle with the brown and yellow spotted maple leaves that claim large swathes of territory along the trail. The light grey green of the witches hair lichen sparkles as the sunlight streams through the drops of rain left behind from last night's torrent. In fact, everything sparkles. There is a sheen of wet on everything, although the air is dry and brisk. This contrast is striking, and I stop for a moment to breathe deeply and enjoy the scent of autumn.

When the path divides, I decide to follow up on my last exploration of these woods, and enter into the cedars. I stop for a moment, to greet them, and acknowledge their ancient presence, and their stately knowingness. I remember the fear I felt last time I was on this path, and wonder at how much difference strong sunlight can make in a situation. There is no longer any sense of oppression, or invasion, or of being watched. I stride down the path, which is far more overgrown than my usual trail, and look ahead to determine which way I am headed. As I had hoped, there seems to be a clearing up ahead, which I hope will turn out to be the lake that is in this refuge. The Oregon Grape swipes at my legs, and I remember why cotton is a poor choice for hiking in these wet and wonderful woods.

I move out from beneath the cedars, and see what appears to be an expanse of water up ahead. There is a tangle of snowberries, mostly leafless, yet offering up their bright fruit to the blue sky above. I notice something odd out of the corner of my eye, a color incongruous with the rest of my visual field. I move closer to explore it, and realize that I have indeed come close to stumbling into someone's living space. A blue tarp, possibly a sleeping body; I quickly retreat and hope I have not disturbed someone in the space that they have created for themselves. I move back through the snowberries, more quickly now, and stand at the edge of the lake basin. Quietly I stand, listening. Birds call high overhead; frogs chorus from somewhere in the distance. I hear no human sounds, footsteps, or speech, and I conclude that I have managed to make a stealthy getaway. Amused, I ponder at the fear I experienced during my last walk. Had I approached this camp in the dusky light of that adventure, would it have ended so easily? I am glad I listened to my intuition, and waited until this sunkissed day to find out what lay down this path.

Circling back to the trailhead now seems like a smart move, and I descend into the dry edge of the lake bed. The lake is quite low right now; I expect that when the rainy season really starts, this whole area will look quite different. For the moment, however, I am glad of the soft mud which is crossed with animal tracks. I find several sizes of deer prints; some are quite small and some are surprisingly large. I also find what could be dog, or possibly coyote. They must come here to drink from the lake. I follow their tracks for a short while, until the mud gets deeper than I am willing to risk, and look to the shoreline for a way home.

There is an obvious path heading just my way, and I stride up it, wondering where I will end up. Soon the blackberry patch reveals itself, and I stand for a moment, soaking up the sunshine, and basking in gratitude for this wonderful world I get to explore.

Grass Lake #3

It was getting late in the day by the time I headed out for my walk today. Although it wasn’t raining, everything was dripping. The sky seemed brighter, somehow, despite the gray, as more of it was visible through the branches of the maples. The ground was strewn with leaves, mostly brown, with an assortment of bright yellow spotted Big Leaf Maple leaves strewn about for color. There was no red to be seen, although there were still bright white berries along the side of the path.

My inner landscape is changing, like the landscape around me. As I walk these woods, and walk further along the path of embodiment, I am aware of more sensation each time. As I annoint my senses with the balm of attention, my receptors wake up, and become more sensitive, more alive. Moving my body in new and challenging ways is enlarging my proprioceptive awareness; I am seeing it in my posture, and in my gait, and in my balance. My sense of touch, my sense of smell, all seem a bit more acute lately, as the practice of presence begins to retrain my nervous system.

It is this sense of sensory depth that I bring with me, into the woods today. I am struck by how lively and bushy the mosses and lichens on the trees seem. They must come into their own, at this time of year. The skies open up and let in both light and rain, soaking them to their ancestral cores. I take my time, today, and look around more, looking for detail, actively drinking up my experience.

When I arrive at the stand of Doug Fir, I pause and listen for a while. There are few birds, and those up high and distant and invisible. The rain sounds different here, under the dark branches that speak of eternity and timelessness. I don’t know how long I stood there, trying to sense other life in the woods. It is strange to be in a wood in a city, where the sounds of traffic are never very far, and I wonder sometimes if I am alone. I feel sentience, here, although it very well may be the trees.

I begin again, to head down to the bottoms, and I come across a trail I have never seen before. I feel compelled to explore it, and find a stand of cedars and a well traveled trail. I wonder if this is the way to the lake, and begin moving along it. Under the cedars, I remember to look up at the sky. The color has a lot more slate in it now, and I realize that I could easily get lost heading down a brand new trail at the tail end of the afternoon. Memories of losing my way begin to be triggered in the associations of my mind, and the ominous music of a thousand horror movies begins to play in my inner ear. I recognize that my amygdala is taking the reins, and breathe deeply as I try to regain my center. I retrace my steps back to the main trail, the trail I have taken before, and I feel a sense of relief when I find it. It is still dark here, although more familiar, and I am struck with a strong urge to run up the trail.

I move with swift purpose up the trail, until the trees thin out and the sky opens back up. I stop for a moment, and look around again, surprised by how much light is still available, out where the grasses and the blackberry thicket are. The visibility and the open space calm my sympathetic nerves, and I laugh a little at myself, for letting my fears get the better of me.

I look back along the trail, which looks more like a cave or a tunnel than anything else at this time. I breathe deeply of the cool autumn air, and feel the adrenaline rush begin to abate. I may have overreacted a bit, as sympathetic nervous system commandeered my body today, but I know that it was telling me something important, about being out in the woods, alone, at dusk. I think that my next walk is definitely going to start earlier in the day.

Grass Lake #2

It is a crisp, clear autumn day, and I can see my breath for the first time this season. The dew sparkles in the morning light, on the grass, on my way into the woods. I feel the sunshine warm my face, and I open up to it, trying to capture that feeling for the short dark days ahead.

The woods are quieter, today. The leaves rustle aimlessly in the breeze, and my steps crunch along the forest path. The alders have lost more leaves. They go from green, to yellow edged, to brown, and fall along the path like confetti. There are Big Leaf Maple leaves, too, not as showy as their many cousins, but what they lack in vibrancy, they make up for in size. Everything seems bigger, here, in the Pacific Northwest. Plants that I recognize from my childhood make me feel like a child again, as my hands seem so small in comparison to them.

I walk along, surprised at how much green is still here. It is just in the alder grove that the leaves have begun to drop. Under the conifers, I thought that the underbrush would be fading for winter, but they seem unphased by this shift in light. Perhaps, in the shadow of the evergreens, the shortening of the days seems less like change than it does in the open spaces. The sunlight rarely reaches the underbrush anyway, except, maybe when the sun is at it’s highest point in the sky.

There are so many kinds of ancient beings in this wood. The oldest plants, the mosses, the lichens, are almost everywhere I look. On the broken branches of fir, streamers of silvery green carve out their niche. Under the grape along the path, there are beautiful little mosses, shaped not unlike the conifers, themselves. They cover the earth in a thick, dewy carpet. There are mushrooms, again, in various stages of life. Many more types than I noticed last time, and many of them at the end of their time, melting back into the earth like cupcake frosting in late July.

I reach the turning point of my journey. I stand for a minute, and listen to the woods. Without the crunch of my steps, I hear so much more. The woods seem alive with animal life. A crow flies overhead, and I look up, this time seeing the tops of the trees, and the blue sky beyond. I breath deeply, enjoying the smells of life all around me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see movement, and turn to watch a chipmunk watching me. A Downy Woodpecker spirals around a fir tree, and juncos flit amongst the Oregon Grape.

The sounds fill me up. I breathe them in on each breath, and wonder how to move more silently in the woods, how to bring this awareness into my movement. I feel like such a clumsy modern person, out of touch with the ways of the woods, and vow to walk more purposefully on my way back home today.

I look out towards the lake, at the opening in the trees where the sky is more visible. I see the cottonwoods and the alders, and I wonder if I will see more, as the season progresses, and more trees shed their leaves. I am drawn to leave the path, and try to approach the lake, but the spiders have staked their claims across the deer path, and I am loathe to destroy their works of art.

So I turn back towards home, and walk more silently than before. Without the persistant dripping from the trees, there is so much more chatter to hear in the woods. And my steps are a bit quieter, and a bit slower, and a bit more purposeful. And I remember to breathe, and be present, and slow down.

Grass Lake #1

Once again, I mistook wetness for cold, and found myself overdressed and sweating upon my walk. Somehow, my sense of internal moisture was comforting, as my sweat glands mimicked the dripping from the Dougs. Everything is moist here and now. The rain has stopped, for the moment, but the dripping continues, telling me when the breeze is winding it’s way above my head.


As I enter the gate at Grass Lake, I am greeted by frog song. I love the sound of their glory, calling to each other, rejoicing that the rainy season has returned. I feel that way as well, glad of the softer light, the more vivid green. I can never get enough of the vitality that is apparent everywhere that I look around me, when I am in the woods, here in the Pacific Northwest.


My life has taken its own winding path. From the concrete canyons of the Big Apple to the open skies of the Land of Enchantment, I have done my time in the cities and the desert. Here in the land of rain, my skin is softer, my eyes more relaxed, my nervous system is soothed by the sound of the water falling from the sky.


And the frog song.


As the frogs sing their welcome, I pass by the rolling thicket of blackberries. They chide me in their silence, wondering where I was when the fruit was full to bursting, and why it is that I didn’t make time for them this year, so they could feed me sweet summer delight from my freezer all winter long. And I make silent promises that next year, I will do better. I will be more present, more in tune with the rhythm of the seasons, and the seasons of my palate.


As I enter the alder patch, the shadows envelop me. The leaves are starting to fall, and they litter the ground with their small green and yellow shapes. There are flashes of golden yellow throughout the woods around me, as the deciduous trees get ready for their autumn ball, donning their colorful finery. It is early in the season yet, and the colors are not yet in their glory. There are hints of the upcoming celebration everywhere, though, and the sumac has swatches of red hiding amongst the green. But the green still dominates my senses, with the salal, and the ferns, and the moss everywhere, moist and soft and green.


Along the path, like lanterns lighting my way, there are mushrooms of all descriptions. There are tiny little white ones, on slender stalks, in groups of 4 or 5. I wonder if they talk to each other, in their ancient fungal language, and what it is that they say. There are larger, cream-colored mushrooms, with crinkly edges that lift up towards the sky. They capture the dripping of the trees, making little goblets of rainwater that they offer back up to the heavens. There are larger, white mushrooms, with rounded edges, that keep their gills hidden, like modest matrons. But the sheer whiteness of the rounded tops is the opposite of modesty, as they draw my eye straight toward them. They stand out, amongst the muted colors of the forest, and I wonder what they are connected to, and what eats them, and if they will be here next time that I walk this path. There are large reddish-purple mushrooms too, and they seem older, somehow, more experienced. They provide some forshadowing of the near future, when the sumac & vine maple turn crimson in their glory. But I think the mushrooms will win out, in the end, and keep their color throughout the rainy season. They are here for the long haul, these fungi, who wait so patiently throughout the summer for the days to shorten and the rains to return.


As I walk, I contemplate this thing called patience. I try to find my rhythm in this walking, recalling Thoreau’s call to “saunter” and I slow my pace, hoping to perceive more, and think less. I listen to my breath, and I hear the rain dripping, and I wonder about the trees, like so many alveoli, negotiating the exchange of carbon dioxide for oxygen. I find myself ever so grateful that I live in a time in which there are still trees, and I offer a prayer to the Great Spirit, that we will adjust our collective course in time to find a better relationship with Mother Earth.


I look up at the trees, these stately Douglas Firs, not even true firs, but we call them that nevertheless. Psuedotsuga, false hemlock, and more like a hemlock than a fir. True firs stick their cones straight up in the air, proud as peacocks. These Dougs hang theirs down, and shed needles all over my driveway every year. That surprised me, when I learned of it. My understanding of conifers was limited, before I moved to the PNW. I understood that they were ‘evergreen’ and had never stopped to notice that they shed their leaves just like their deciduous cousins. They are just a bit more conservative in their approach, only shedding some of them each year, saving enough to continue to harvest the light, and the oxygen, to grow stately, tall, and strong.


The clouds have come down to mingle with the Dougs. Some of the trees vanish from sight in the mist, and I wonder if they can harvest moisture from the air as I have heard that the redwoods do. Not that they need to, not this time of year. The rain is seeping into everything; their roots, their coats of moss, their leaves, the earth, my pants… After seven years in the desert, and the tendency to drought during our summers here, I always feel a sense of relief when the rainy season finally begins again.

sick and tired

No, I am not sick and tired of meditating. I am literally sick, and tired. With all the intensity this past week, beginning college, changing workplaces, having sick kids, I guess it was bound to happen. Somehow, it is actually quite metaphorical for my meditation experience thus far. I sit down to practice, and all sorts of things rush into my mind as being urgent, needing attention RIGHT NOW. And I put them aside, over and over, beginning again to empty my mind. And this sickness is a physical urgency, a screaming siren on the road to self care, that reminds me of the dangers of stress and the outcome of forgetting to take care of myself.

And it gets in the way of Anapana, big time. How is one supposed to focus on the breath, on the point at which the breath leaves the nose, when the nose itself feels packed full of wool roving? I try to recalibrate, to focus instead on my breath as it leaves my lungs dense and heavy, my throat sore, my lips, dry and cracked. And this is even less helpful. Like a Buddhist, meditating on his own corpse, I attempt to find peace amidst the knowledge of the limitations of my body. Unlike a Buddhist in such a meditation, I am too new to this not to let it fill my mind with self pity.

Yet this experience is just as real and valid as any other. And slowing down to experience it honors the reality of a life, that is filled not just with joy and pleasure, but with challenge and discomfort as well. And so I sit, and I try not to watch the clock, and I feel my breath as it is right now. The seasons are shifting into the short wet days, and like so many others, my body goes through it's own short, wet season in the Pacific Northwest.

beginning practice

Today was the third morning in a row in which I sat upon arising, to meditate. I have been pleasantly surprised to find that I can focus my attention on my breath, on my nose, without too much difficulty. Apparently, sitting for 10 days at Vipassana retreat 7 years ago had some long-term effects, even though I failed to continue that practice for more than a week or two afterwards.

Focusing on breath is the easy part; staying focused is definitely more challenging. My mind wants to think, and plan, and process. But I catch myself sooner than I used to, and go back to the breath, always the breath. Sometimes, when I feel really fragmented, I have to count during the inhale and again during the exhale, in order to make no room for other thoughts. Other times, I forget that strategy, and the beginning of each part of the cycle is like coming up for air in a sea of swirling thoughts.

The evening sessions have proved equally difficult, but in other ways. I find myself slipping off into sleep, and losing the bookends of the breath. There is less planning, and more processing, and I find myself more easily lost. I am considering riding the crainal midtide as my practice instead of doing Anapana, because I find that it is so interesting that it is easier to put aside the chatter in my mind. The Vipassana folks are on to something, though. Anapana is a good place for me to start, to remind myself what centered focus can feel like, and to help carve out some space out of the day to just be.

ready, set, go!

After years away from the blogosphere, I have spiraled back to this place, this way of being. The occasion? I am now back in college, and my first class is called "Movement & Mindfulness." One of our requirements for the class is to keep a journal on our mindfulness practices, and this seemed like a good way to do that.

I invite you to journey with me as I enter into mindfulness practice.