In Every Place


A mountain always practices in every place.
~ Eihei Dogen (12th Century Japanese Zen Master)

It was cold but not too cold when we woke up in our tent beneath a lone pine growing in a mountain sea of sage and bitterbrush. Snow was lightly falling from a gray sky, which muffled all noises, giving a hushed tone to the world around us. We had a small fire, which crackled and stirred, and breakfast of oatmeal, hot coffee and hot spiced cider. As we took down the tent, I asked her to help stuff a sleeping bag, which she tried but couldn’t. “She is just not trying hard enough,” I thought to myself and may have said something to that effect. Not my nicest words but also not my worst.

A bit later, I could see that she was upset and crying. I immediately felt guilty about my harsh words and was hit by a rush of shame. My mind raced between blaming myself and weakly justifying my poorly chosen words. Then I took a couple of deep breaths and stopped. I just stopped and looked at her, and then wiped off her tears before they froze to her cheeks. I just looked at her and then I listened. Often in these moments, she clams up, especially if I push her to talk, so I just sat with her and did nothing.

“My feet are cold,” she said. “Oh,” I replied. “Do you want me to warm them up?” She nodded, I took off her boots and socks and held her small cold feet against my very warm belly. As her feet came back to live so did she. “Was this why you were crying, sweetie,” I asked. She nodded again.

The wildlife biologist George Shaller once wrote while trekking in the Himalaya to study blue sheep that “The condition of ‘homelessness’ is the maturity of relying on nothing and responding to whatever turns up at the doorstep.”

We may not be familiar with this concept of homelessness whereas many eastern religions like Zen Buddhism are steeped in this idea. Leaving home, literally or figuratively, are important parts of a monks pathway, yet we can embrace this in our everyday lives as well. If I had continued to assume that she was upset because of my ill words then I would not have been able to respond to the actual moment, to what turned up on my doorstep. I may have reacted from a place of inadequacy or feeling bad about myself, which is never a great place for me to react from.

This much I know and have experienced enough times to have learned from it. Respond with openness and inquisitiveness, don’t react from fear, inadequacy or habit. By not-relying on what I thought was going on, I was able to be open to what I didn’t know, which allowed me to respond to what was actually going on. Responding rather than reacting is crucial. When I react, it is habitual and usually not very wholesome. When I respond, however, I root my action in not knowing what is going on and remain open to the endless possibilities that each moment offers. From here, I can welcome anyone or anything that shows up on my doorstep and then just see what happens. This is the mountain (myself) practicing in every place. No matter what happens, from here may I respond to the moment.


by David LaFever

A Little Practice

Practice

noun

  1. the actual application or use of an idea, belief, or method, as opposed to theories relating to it.
  2. the customary, habitual, or expected procedure or way of doing of something.

verb

  1. perform (an activity) or exercise (a skill) repeatedly or regularly in order to improve or maintain one’s proficiency.
  2. carry out or perform (a particular activity, method, or custom) habitually or regularly.

It’s approximately seven miles on a paved road from town to our land. The road winds it’s way around the hulking block of McClure Mountain, in whose shadow lies the town of Twisp. We seem to drive this road everyday, following the Methow River downstream, which is just a part of rural living these days. Driving the same road can be boring, habitual, something to ignore. Our bodies seem to do the driving while our brains wander aimlessly. Mindless. But it can also be a chance to re-engage, to pay attention and to be mindful. The ever-present possibility of a deer running out in the road should make us pay attention, if nothing else. And yet it is all too easy to be lost in my thoughts as I drive this stretch of known road.

When I was growing up in rural upstate New York in the 1980s and 1990s, people waved to each other on rural roads. This was certainly true on our road which was not properly paved until much later. I remember watching my dad wave at neighbors and seeing them wave back. Sometimes it was a full wave, emanating friendliness in its fullness, while other times it was simply raising the hand or a couple of fingers in habitual movement. I vividly remember old man Donny Driscoll, who lived down the road from us, in his white Ford pick up truck driving basically down the middle of the road, two hands on the top of the wheel. He was pretty near-sighted as I recall his coke-bottle thick glasses. He just raised his index finger, nothing more and nothing less.

You always waved on our road, that’s just the way it was. On other roads, however, the rules of engagement were a bit different. Perhaps you waved at everyone, if you were particularly friendly. You always waved at tractors. And if you were driving a pickup truck, you waved at other pickup trucks. Such was the culture, at that time, on the back roads and byways of upstate New York.

Since moving here to rural North-Central Washington, I have re-engaged with this practice. As I drive the seven miles to and from town, I wave at everyone I meet, and I do it for two reasons. First, I want to cultivate rural friendliness and neighborliness, which I do not want to see go away in our country. It is a simple way to connect with each other, like saying hi in the post office. Secondly, I do it as a practice of both mindfulness and connection.

Doing this everyday gives me the chance to see my own mind, my own preferences and my own prejudices more clearly. Because I try to wave at everyone, I notice more astutely when I do and do not wave. When I don’t wave at someone, I realize that my mind has been wandering. I am lost in thought and this practice helps me to return to the present, to what I am actually doing. Driving and being neighborly.

I also notice who I do and do not want to wave at, which shows me the subtle and, I have to say, idiotic, judgments I make based on the car that someone is driving. Do I wave at that big-ass redneck looking truck? Do I greet the all-too wealthy looking BMW-driving liberal city slicker? You betcha I do! I get to see my prejudices and how quickly I make distinctions and then let them go with the wave of a hand. Yes, I get to say, this car too I will wave at. This person too, regardless of my opinion, I connect with ever so briefly as we zoom past each other. Getting to practice with myself in this way, everyday, is an important way to see myself more clearly and to let go of it with a kindly gesture. Some days I just go through the motions while others I am more kindly.

What I am realizing is that simple acts, like waving on rural roads brings me more fully into this very real and present moment. It shows me where I am dividing the world apart and where I am reconnecting it in its natural wholeness. Awareness and present-mindedness are cultivated and most importantly practiced. Over and over and over again, the never ending practice of being human.


by David LaFever

The Way of Riding the Clouds

IMG_3090 (2)

The landscape and the language are the same. And we ourselves are landscape and the land.
~ Conrad Aiken “A Letter from Li Po”

 

For the second year in a row I participated in the Red Cedar Zen Community’s “Mountains and Rivers Retreat” on Mount Baker, which Red Cedar has been doing since 2000. This was the 19th time. Most years it is done as a multi-night backpacking pilgrimage to a large meadow below the azure glaciers of this hulking volcanic mountain. This year’s form was a day-hike of 12 hours and 17 miles round trip. We walked in silence, stopped and performed seven ritual ceremonies, chanted Dogen’s sansuikyo (“Mountains and Waters Sutra”), chanted Shitou’s “Merging of Difference and Unity” and exchanged water between the sea and the mountain. A pilgrimate of sorts and a “sutra-mapping” of the sansuikyo, where landscape, language and pilgrim come together, realizing unity.

Walking in silence through the deep conifer forests of the Pacific Northwest and into the seemingly esoteric words of Eihei Dogen, a 13th century Japanese Zen master, my mind runs rampant. Thoughts like “what’s this plant” and “what the hell does Dogen mean here”, ebb, flow and mingle with mundane thoughts about home and home-life.

Dogen’s writings, particularly in the sansuikyo, encourage us to see the realization or enlightenment in daily acts, not only of body and speech but also of mind. Words matter, he seems to be saying, just don’t hold on to them too tightly. He shows us the deep truth in going beyond thought and logic but also in thought and logic.  To understand that what is happening right now, all our words, thoughts and actions, are an expression of completeness, is to see mountains and waters as expressing wholeness.

“Mountains and waters right now are the actualization of the ancient buddha way. Each, abiding in its phenomenal expression, realizes completeness.”

The essay is divided into five parts, and we chant one section at a time at different ceremonial sites as we walk into and out of the mountains – an ancient hemlock, a headwater stream, a trickling waterfall, a mountain meadow, a rocky creek bed, and a bouldery prominence.

First stop is in decadent and quintessential northwest coniferous forest. Ancient, verdant, dripping with life. Our voices join together as we chant, raised to an ancient conifer whose bark is twisted and scarred by lightning. This ancient one’s top is broken and, with few branches with which to capture the sun’s energy, I am surprised that it is alive at all. But it is alive, erect and tall.

IMG_3080

The first part of the essay we read in front of this ancient and venerable teacher. Here Dogen quotes Priest Daokai of Mt. Furong, who said, “The green mountains are always walking …,” to which Dogen adds, “Mountains walking is just like humans walking…If you doubt mountains walking, you do not know your own walking.” 

Walking along the trail lost in thought, I wonder at the mountains’ walking, and my own. Do I doubt this walking? How can I doubt or not understand something that I have been doing for a very long time and that I do without apparent thought? How does this walking and the mountains’ constantly walking relate? How are they the same thing or are they? Perhaps if I wasn’t so distracted by thoughts, I would be able to see this mountains’ walking and understand my own? But perhaps the mountains too, get lost in thought, always walking, always changing.

“Mountains do not lack the qualities of mountains. Therefore they always abide in ease and always walk.”

Climbing farther and ascending deeper into the mountains, we pass through unlogged, old-growth forests of hemlock, cedar and fir. Some of these trees, feet in diameter, have been standing here for hundreds of years and are a couple hundred feet tall. Drapped in moss and lichen they seem to grow not up from the ground, but out from the atmosphere filling time and space. Deeper into silence, deeper into the forest, and deeper into Dogen we go, yet my mind wands away from the present, moment by moment.

We stop where the trail crosses the South Fork Nooksack River, downstream of where it flows out of Elbow Lake. Not only do we chant the Mountains and Waters Sutra, but we also engage in a water-changing ceremony and chant the “Merging of Difference and Unity,” written by Chinese Cha’n (Zen) teacher Shitou Xiqian in the 8th Century. As the Salish Sea merges with the Nooksack, our voices join together with the sound of flowing water, becoming one chant, one sutra.

“In the light there is darkness, but don’t take it as darkness. In the dark, there is light, but don’t see it as light.”

At this time and place I think of this as:

 “In water there is mountain, but don’t think water is mountain. In the mountain, there is water but don’t think mountain is water.”

Each is it’s own, and interpenetrates the other, completely.

Continuing our chanting of Dogen, the sutra shifts to a focus on water. Water is water, right, and we all know what it is. It is wet and flows downstream. In typical Dogen fashion, however, he flips this on its head to remind us that what we think of as water (or reality) isn’t really water. He implores us to study the moment when “water sees water.”

“Water is neither strong nor weak, neither wet nor dry, neither moving nor still, neither cold nor hot, neither existent nor nonexistent, neither deluded nor enlightened. When water solidifies, it is harder than a diamond. Who can crack it? When water melts, it is gentler than milk. Who can destroy it?”

What is this water that Dogen speaks of?  I begin to notice all the places where water flows in these mountains, trickling out everywhere – seeping out of tree roots and crevices and cascading down rocky streams. Does it only flow downwards or does it also flow sideways and upwards?

And where does all this water come from? Where is it going? Is there really an end and a beginning or is it simply an endless cycle of no-beginning and no-end? If this is so for water, surely it must be so for me as well.

Deepening our walking, deepening our mapping of this sutra, we traverse the edges of the South Fork Nooksack drainage. Cedars seem to flow down the mountainside, giant tree roots that cling like an eagle’s talons to the earth. The forest parts here and there to afford views of the South Fork Divide, Loomis Mountain and the Twin Sisters, hazy in the smoky air. We cross the divide at Bell Pass, a sweet little ponded-meadow and walk into the Middle Fork Nooksack River watershed.

We reach our next ceremonial site, a dripping, lovely little cascade where moss blankets the rocks and ferns dance in tiny breaths of wind. We lay down our packs, take out our sutras and prepare again for ceremony. Like each one before, it begins with Bob setting up the “altar” with a candle, incense and the vials of water. We all then engage in the ancient Zen dance of ritual which includes offering, bowing, chanting and dedicating.  Here it is further complicated by the tricky and often slippery ground of the mountain world, but then again, isn’t our life always a bit tricky and often precarious too?

IMG_3117

“Are there many ways to see one thing, or is it a mistake to see many forms as one thing?”

Our next stop is at Ridley Creek, close to our destination at Mazama Park, where we exchange water and again chant the “Merging of Difference and Unity.” We are high enough in the mountains that wildflowers blanket the creek-side. Lupines and daisys grace us with their color, bringing in bumblebees and butterflies. Suddenly there is a lot of life within this life.

IMG_3127

“If you don’t understand the way right before you, how will you know the path as you walk?”

I have long strove to understand the world around me, which has led me to the pursuits of ecology, Zen Buddhism, and even backpacking. I love knowing what plants and animals are around me and how they interact, and why things are the way they are. However, this can also lead me into questioning everything which can be done in a judgmental way. “Why are you doing it that way,” I seem to catch myself all to often saying. So what is Dogen saying here? How are we to understand the way right before us? How are we to understand understanding? And what does this tell us about the path we are walking?

We have lunch and take rests at a place the Nooksack people called something like spelhpalhxen (“large, open berry picking place”, or something like that) and gaze up at where the icy top of the mountain usually is. We can just barely make out the glaciers on Mount Baker’s flanks through the hazy smoke, which if you didn’t know they were there you might not even notice. We engage in ceremony yet again, and continue our chanting of Dogen:

“When you take one view you see mountains flowing, and when you take another view, mountains are not flowing. One time mountains are flowing, another time they are not flowing.”

Which is the truth, where does reality lie? Is Mount Baker really there or not? Does it have to be an either/or situation? Can it be both there and not-there, can we be both alive and dying too?

IMG_3128 (2)

We turn and head back down the trail. It has gotten late and we take an inventory of headlamps in case we need them. Our next stop is a steep, rocky and dry creek bed at the very top of the Middle Fork Nooksack watershed. Looking down the watershed, it feels as though we are at the very top of the world. The drainage winds down, sinuous and serene through forested mountains made hazy blue by smoke. It seems as though we can see to the sea and perhaps you can on clear days. A gorgeous view that draws me in. This could very well be the abode of sages and wise ones that Dogen writes about:

“You may think that in mountains many wise people and sages are assembled. But after entering the mountains, not a single person meets another.”

What is Dogen getting at here, I wonder as we continue on our journey? It was true that we have met very few people along the trail, and who knows if they were wise ones or sages, but still, didn’t we meet someone here? If no one else, then perhaps we meet ourselves here in the mountains, and come to a better understanding of our own walking, our own true nature. So how is it that we meet no one? Isn’t the point of this trip to meet someone, anybody? “Is anybody out there,” I want to yell into the void.

IMG_3135

The last stop on our pilgrimage is an outcrop of rocks high above the South Fork Nooksack, looking more or less directly at the Twin Sisters range. I remember this spot from last year and the astonishment I felt when I looked around and realized how many tree species were growing together here. It’s a place of mixing and mingling where wet-loving species like hemlock and Douglas-fir meet with mountain species like western white pine and mountain hemlock, drier species such as juniper and even Alaska yellow-cedar, with its characteristic draping foliage.  A remarkable spot and I feel a sense of something special here. No wonder this is one of our spots for ritual.

“Although mountains belong to the nation, mountains belong to the people that love them. When mountains love…a virtuous sage or wise person enters the mountains…trees and rocks become abundant and birds and animals are inspired.”

I sling my pack back on and say hello to the juniper growing low over the rocky ground, touching its scaly-foliage before turning and heading down the trail. I think of my daughters and the mountains and the future of it all. How are we to best take care of our home and each other? What is this “entering the mountains”, and what does the “green mountains constantly walking” mean for us at this juncture of time and space? What does love have to do with any of it?

Love, ahh love, is the key to it all, I believe. But it is not the kind of love that is possessive, greedy, or shallow. It is a love that is simple and deep, selfless and freeing rather than controlling and limiting. It is a love that comes from the knowing that we are all connected, so what each one of us does matters.

“Free your minds and your ass will follow,” George Clinton once said, so we begin with freeing our minds which may be what Dogen is getting at with all of these words, after all. We let our minds flow freely, not resting (for too long) on anything, like the purplish copper butterfly we saw near Ridley Creek. It alighted on a white daisy for flying off again, fluttering in the mountain air. And we engage in and acknowledge relationship just as the butterfly did with the daisy. We pollinate the mountains and the mountains pollinate us.

“Because mountains are high and broad, the way of riding the clouds is always reached in the mountains; the inconceivable power of soaring in the wind comes freely from the mountains.”

Both Dogen and the mountains are showing us the way to love, generously, and that what comes from this is abundance. When we are greedy we constrict the world and create limits, but when we give our lives and our love freely, the world opens up all around us. There is reciprocity and interpenetration. Actually this is already, always happening and we are simply called to see it. The green mountains are constantly walking, and the waters flow freely in all directions, and when we come to know this, we too can understand our own walking. And be set free, not from but into our very lives.

 

 

Getting Laundered

IMG_1179

I set down the meditation pillow and arrange it neatly atop a small rug, which is itself neatly arranged in a rectangular shaft of sunlight. I then drop an tangled pile of clean laundry in front of the cushion. The clothes are still warm and smell fresh, unscented. I bow to the cushion then I turn and bow to the laundry and sit down, legs crossed uncomfortably beneath me.

I pick up each bit of clothes, fold it neatly and place it into a pile, separated by family member. There is a Madeleine pile, a Juniper pile, a Kristin pile, a David pile, and a pile of assorted towels, rags and the like. Each gets its due attention, imbued with my intention to take care of things. I pay attention, not in a worried or overly-attentive way like a hover-parent, but in a Rightly attentive way. I fold each item to completion, nothing more and nothing less. And of course my mind wanders and then I remember to pay attention and so I do and return to the task at hand. Grab, smooth, fold, breath, place into pile, repeat. Inhaling, exhaling; rising, falling; thoughts coming, thoughts going. Each moment, complete by itself. Each article of clothing taken complete care of.

Folding laundry, one of the most ordinary acts, is thus turned into something…. Hmmm, I hesitate here. Its actually not turned into something or transformed into the extraordinary, which is what I find myself wanting to say Rather, its allowed to be exactly what it is – folding laundry and by allowing to be just what it is, its becomes ordinary. Nothing special at all.


written by David LaFever

Mountains and Rivers Without End

If you doubt mountains’ walking, you do not know your own walking; it is not that you do not walk, but that you do not know or understand your own walking. Since you do know your own walking, you should full know the green mountains’ walking. 

~Eihei Dogen (13th century Japan)

 

IMG_3111
Mountain majesty.

We stood in a circle, bowed to each other and at the sound of the wooden clappers, began walking into the mountains. Beginning in logged over, dog-hair thick conifer stands, we were soon striding through dripping and decadent old-growth forest. For 17 years the zen group out of Bellingham have been doing this pilgrimage into the mountains, into the mind of zen. We were also walking into the Sansuikyo or “Mountains and Rivers Sutra,” a teaching given by Zen Master Eihei Dogen late in the night in the year 1240. It begins with the line “Mountains and waters right now are the actualization of the ancient Buddha way” and thus we began our ritual enactment of the ancient buddha way of mountains and rivers. In silence, we moved up the trail as one body, leaving no one behind, and just like the mountains there was stillness in our activity. Ascending some 1,500 feet over seven and a half miles in this way, we hiked through ancient temperate rainforest and up the slopes of a relatively young and still active stratovolcano.

FullSizeRender 2a
Hiking through old-growth conifer forest.

Along the way, we stopped to honor sacred places, bowing and chanting a part of Dogen’s sansuikyo each time. The first stop was an old-growth western hemlock, miraculously still alive, that had a lightning scar spiraling down its gnarled trunk. Living and dying in this ancient place isn’t particularly distinct and I thought of Shitou’s teaching (the Sandokai or “Harmony of Difference and Sameness”) that things are “not one, not two”. Like the feet in walking its difficult to say which comes first and which comes after. Maybe living and dying, like before and after, are really in each other all along. They are not one, not two; not different but also not the same.

 “Because green mountains are constantly walking, they are permanent. Although they walk more swiftly than the wind, someone in the mountains does not realize or understand it.”

IMG_3045
Touching an ancient western red cedar.

Our second stop was for lunch, which we shared in silence, and I was struck with how well humans can communicate without saying a word. During this lunch I came to understand not only how distracting talking can be but also what a crutch it can be. Because we remained in silence, we each had to pay close attention to what was going on in order to serve others, in order to share what was available. If someone wanted the bag of crackers or the beef jerky, they couldn’t simply ask and get someone’s attention. In this realm of silence, attention needed to be freely given not raucously garnered. During our usual mode of talking and eating, we can sort of not pay attention because someone will get our attention when its needed. But in silence, we all had to remain firmly rooted in the moment, like the ancient hemlocks all around, in order to engage in the simple act of sharing food. It was beautiful, simple and profound.

After a few more hours of silent walking, we stopped at a babbling little waterfall, which gushed forth from the mountains, through the mountains and through us. This was our second ceremonial site and we continued to read Dogen’s teaching together as the waters poured forth from rock and rubble. It was beautiful to hear our voices mixing and mingling with one another and the waters cascading down the mountain.

“All waters appear at the foot of the (eastern) mountains. Accordingly, all mountains ride on clouds and walk in the sky. Above all waters are all mountains. Walking beyond and walking within are both done on water. All mountains walk with their toes on all waters and splash there.”

 

FullSizeRender 6
Flowers and flowing waters.

In thick clouds, light rain (hard to tell the difference), we ascended to an open heather meadow which was to be our camp for two days. Exhausted we set up tents and our camp kitchen and hung our food bags before dropping off to heavy sleep. Ahh the exhausted sleep of mountain walking! We knew the 5:30am wake up bell would ring all too early.

And it did. Both mornings we woke up in this way. First the high sound of the morning bell and later the thud of wood on wood as we set up a makeshift han (the traditional way to call monks to at monasteries), which was struck for ten minutes calling us to meditation. The first morning we sat in the open air, using our sleeping pads for cushions and wrapping ourselves in our sleeping bags for warmth. These were our mountains seats and mountain robes.

The second morning we had set up the log lean-to as our zendo (meditation hall) which has served the group in years past. Both mornings we were visited by well-known camp robbers – gray jays – who startled us by flying shockingly close to our heads to find bits of leftover food to eat. Zazen or seated meditation was interspersed with kinhin or walking meditation which we did outdoors under the looming glaciers and peaks of Mount Baker (10,781 feet). Looking around, there was Mount Baker, Easton and Deming glaciers, Black Buttes, Cathedral Crag, Park Butte Lookout and to the west, the Twin Sisters Range with its own sets of glaciers. Mountains all around, dancing with their toes in all waters, whether frozen or flowing.

FullSizeRender 3a
Mountain zendo.

 

This day included an hour and half period of solo time, where each of us sat in a little nook of our own. We were instructed to meditate, write, read or sleep as needed but to no move around a whole lot. I was placed up a dry ravine where rocks cascaded down where water once flowed. I set up my mountain seat, wrapped myself in my mountain robe and just sat. Before leaving camp, I quickly grabbed water, first aid kit and “Mountains and Rivers Sutra,” in a greedy way, thinking that I might want one of these things. I quickly discovered that I really didn’t need anything. I just sat, taking it all in and letting it all go like the breath. Nothing else to do, nothing extra needed.

“Keeping its own form, without changing body and mind, a mountain always practices in every place.”

 In the afternoon, some of us went on an optional day hike up a trail that took us eastward over a ridge and then up to Park Butte Lookout (an old fire lookout that can be camped in – first come, first serve). As we ascended up the talus, rocky slope, we heard the high pitched whistle call of pikas (small mammals related to rabbits, who make haystacks in order to dry grass for winter), which we eventually spotted among the rocks and rubble. Once we crested the top, we were greeted with a most amazing view. To the north, Mount Baker and Easton glacier carving lateral moraines into the mountain; to the east, a long line of craggy peaks stretching from Canada seemingly to the end of the earth. This was the North Cascades in all its alpine glory – mountains upon mountains stretching as far as I could see. My heart soared and my feet nearly did too!

“Because mountains are high and broad, their way of riding the clouds always extends from the mountains; their wondrous power of soaring in the wind comes freely from the mountains.”

IMG_3123
Striking the han, the call to morning meditation.

Our last day, we awoke early again to the sound of the bell and the han calling us to meditation. After a couple of rounds of zazen and kinhin we ate a delicious breakfast of oatmeal and then set about to breaking down camp and packing up to leave. A clear day in the mountains with clouds coming and going on Mount Baker in a never-ending game of hide and seek. I reminded myself to remember that just because it is covered in clouds it doesn’t mean that shining, lovely Mount Baker is not there. We did another ceremony, this time facing the mountain itself before beginning our descent back to the trail head.

“The Buddha said, ‘All things are ultimately unbound. There is nowhere that they permanently reside.” Know that even though all things are unbound and not tied to anything, they abide in their own condition.”

FullSizeRender 3
Splendor.

We continued to flow downward as mountains walking, stopping frequently for short breaks especially for our knees. Again, as one body we moved and there was stillness and silence in our activity. We stopped twice more on the way down to perform our ceremonies and to recite the rest of the sansuikyo. The first stop was a rocky gulch, looking northwestward down a long, green drainage (Middle Fork Nooksack, I believe).

“Mountains have been the abode of great sages from the limitless past to the limitless present. Wise people and sages all have mountains as their inner chamber, as their body and mind. Because of wise people and sages, mountains are actualized.”

We trudged onward and downward, experiencing the mountains as walking, constantly walking. Lunch was had again in silence in a meadow at the top of a pass. After a needed rest, we continued down the trail to our next ceremony site, which was a rocky outcrop overlooking mountains beyond. As we chanted the final part of the “Mountains and Rivers Sutra,” I looked around and noticed a strange assemblage of tree species. There were western hemlock, like all the forest around, but also Alaska yellow cedar, Douglas-fir, western white pine, subalpine or Pacific silver fir, and a creeping species of juniper. Wow, this was a place where species came together that are not normally found together. What a special place!

FullSizeRender 2
Ceremonial site of great conifer diversity.

“There are mountains hidden in treasures. There are mountains hidden in swamps. There are mountains hidden in the sky. There are mountains hidden in mountains. There are mountains hidden in hiddenness.”

My pace slowed as we neared the parking lot, which it usually does when I am coming down out of mountains. I am both excited to be home with my family and reticent to return to town. Such beauty and imagination was experienced in the mountains and waters and I wondered how I could cultivate that same sense in my everyday life. Could I see mountains in traffic, mountains in frustration, mountains in worry? Could I learn to see rivers in anger, glaciers in paperwork, cascading waters in the conditions of my life? This, I now saw, was the green mountains constantly walking, and the practice of the wild that I came here to do.


written by David LaFever