Here, There & Everywhere: December 2012

Hiking in the Taylor Valley

When the Muse comes She doesn't tell you to write; She says get up for a minute, I've something to show you, stand here. --Michael Goldman

Alone is good. It makes me feel self dependent and strong. Solitude allows me to listen, and in the stillness I realize that there are words to be heard.

It is a wonderful thing to escape from the hustle and bustle of station life and to explore a still, quiet mountain valley. A few weeks ago I found myself in paradise--alone in the Taylor Valley, walking along a frozen Lake Hoare. A welcome therapeutic escape from a [sometimes] stifling McMurdo.

The first ten minutes after leaving my crew behind I was stiff and quiet--still feeling the burden of social confinement. But once I realized that I was alone, really alone, my shoulders dropped with relief, and my pace picked up with an extra skip in my step--like a young filly released from her stall. Then the songs started.

I rarely sing when I'm alone (for a number of reasons), mostly because "alone" isn't always alone. I've been caught, on more than one occasion, by passing hikers, swinging a stick and singing at the top of my lungs. I am always left red-faced and silent as the grave as they suppress their laughter and politely pass by. These days I remain pensive and quiet on the trail. My only exception is if I lose my bear spray in the Bob Marshall. In this case I will sing Elton John's Tiny Dancer at the top of my lungs.

My constraints broke down and I began to sing loud and boisterously. I sang until my throat was dry and I became bored with my own voice. Soon my song faded away and all that I heard was the clicking and clanking of my backpack and the crunching ice beneath my feet. Like I said, solitude is good. To leave people behind, even those close to me, and become "one" again--to regain my individuality--this is important to me. I cleared my mind as I walked--shutting out and turning off all external and internal noise. And that's how it starts.

Finding silence, true silence, is difficult. I've experienced it only on a few occasions, and when I do, I have existential experiences. I have usually been alone when this happens--it is more conducive--and I have always been in the natural world. Words or thoughts pop into my head suddenly and so randomly that sometimes I feel like they are a gift from the universe. It's like unseen forces know that my mind is quiet, my heart is open, and that I am ready and willing to receive its secrets or words of wisdom. Some times I feel like I am being rewarded for putting myself in a place, physically and mentally, to receive these insights.

I once had an experience (as I like to call it) in the Grand Canyon. I discovered (or was enlightened to) my own insignificance. There, in The Big Ditch, I understood my place in this world. I learned that life goes on with out me and that my previous world view (in being the center of the universe) was the belief of my inner child. The harsh beauty and shear scale of the canyon showed me just how small and insignificant I was--and I was okay with it. In all honesty, I was relieved. All of a sudden I felt connected, no longer detached. I found my place and with it came acceptance, confidence, and a burning desire to make the most of my short time.

This inner voice started when I was alone and in a predicament. I had climbed too high on the red rocks and I had a treacherous, steep, decent ahead of me. I sat for a long time thinking. I thought about how foolish I was to have put myself in that situation. I thought about how if I slipped, there was a good chance that I would not have been found--I had strayed far from the direction I had told my companions I was heading. I thought about how unfriendly this place was--how every misstep could result in injury or death or, at the very least, cactus in my hands. I thought about my water supply, about my family and my dog back home, and whether or not I had paid my student loan bill before I left. And after I thought and thought, I suddenly stopped thinking and sat quietly. And that is when my lesson began.

But that wasn't the only time I had an experience. I once heard, I swear I heard, nature's voice while I sat in my little red kayak in an eddy while my tourists swam and splashed and disturbed what little peace there was left to disturb. As my ears and mind became acclimated to the noise, and I drew my thoughts away from the chaotic scene, something within me grew quiet. My mind became still, along with my body, and my focus fell on the water that held me in its calm embrace. I watched the currents converge. Watched as they swirled and twirled in a turbulent yet graceful dance. I saw minos float like dark clouds--turning from puffy cumulous to thin cirrus at the slightest disturbance. The sun penetrated the water and reached its friendly rays towards the dark green depths. The light flickered on the surface like diamonds--so brilliant!

I first heard it while taking in all these sites. It was a whisper, a mumble, at first, but grew in volume and audibility. As crazy as it sounds, the river was speaking to me. But it wasn't just the river. It was the natural world, the universe, it was life's voice that I heard. I listened hard but I couldn't make out her words. If only I was alone! If only these people would disappear and I was free to sit for hours and give my full attention, my full commitment, I know I would have understood, maybe even had a dialogue. But as it were, I sat and strained my ears for the words that never came. I may not have heard the words, but I felt their meaning and an inner peace set in. At that moment I knew I was on the right path, that I was living a life that was harmonious and in concordance to the universe.

Once again I felt my insignificance, I understood my role as a short burning clump of matter, a convergence of atoms. To know you are not the center of the universe, but part of it, is such a beautiful feeling! Why anyone would want a universe centered around humans and religious orthodox is beyond me. This life, as it is, is perfect to me. It's a gift of free will--to be who you want, to do what you want, to go where you want, to love who you want and not be pre made or pre destined towards anything in particular.

One of the last times I heard this voice was while I was skiing in the backcountry on a snowy day. I had stopped to rest on my ascent--tired from trying to keep up with Ryan who is unnaturally fast up the mountain. Whether he is hiking, skinning up a trail or plowing a new one, he leaves me, and anyone who dares to try and keep up, in the dust. This unnatural speed makes me, at times, wonder if he is indeed my relation and not part machine. But, I suppose we do have the same squinty eyes when we smile. So.

I sat in the snow--quietly watching plump snow flakes float down like feathers from swollen pillow-clouds. Every now and again Manny (who is the only one who can keep up with Robot Ryan) broke from his side to check on me. At this moment both Ryan and Manny were some where "up" and I was alone. Stillness set in and quietly fell around me in a thick blanket. Every once in a while I could hear a faint "jingle" from Manny's collar and then, once again, quiet. At this moment I felt rather than heard it. Magic!

As a child, my imagination was sacred. Belief in the unseen was part of my every day life. Books, and make believe, and Santa Claus--any thing and every thing was possible. My friend Abby's favorite stories is about the day I found out the truth about Santa Claus. Since we are close to Christmas I will share it with you. But be warned, it is a sad, sad story.

I was young--around eight years old--and pretending to be a journalist. I decided that since I had heard rumors, I would investigate the validity of certain holiday persons and also special occasion persons (aka tooth fairy).

I chose my unsuspecting Mother as my first source. "Mrs. Witkowski" I began, "is it, or is it not, true that the tooth fairy is real?" I sat poised and confident, holding my "My Little Ponies" notepad and pink-sparkled pencil.

"Honey, are you sure you want to know?" Was my poor, trapped mother's reply.

"Yes."

She tried to soften the blow with her words, but the terrible "No" was all I heard. My head and heart dropped, but I was determined to remain strong. I asked my next question.

"Mrs. Witkowski, is the Easter Bunny real?" My voice waivered.

In a soft, sympathetic voice, "No, honey."

At this point my eyes began to tear up and I gripped my pink-sparkled pencil tightly.

Forgetting formality, "Santa?" I squeaked.

A slow, mournful head-shake was my Mother's answer.

I tossed my pink-sparkled pencil and "My Little Ponies" notepad aside and threw myself on the floor and cried and cried. My heart, as silly as it sounds, was broken. The magic was gone. An entire world that I loved had disapeared. Vanished. Growing up and leaving behind the world of make-believe was sobering. I wanted magic, mystery, and the prospect of anything being possible. All I found with age was impossibility, improbability, doubt, and painful truths--a dry non fiction life.

Sitting in silence, watching individually unique and detailed frozen water molecules settle on the out-stretched arms of Lodge Pole Pines and straining my ears to hear them land, I rediscovered this forgotten world. The voice was again present--mentoring my open mind. I began to think of atoms and protons. My thoughts turned to multiple dimensions and parallel universes. I thought about these other worlds that run on their own set of rules--rules that look nothing like our own--breaking the confines of gravity and the laws of the universe as we know it. This is real magic. Magic that surrounds us unseen. Magic that makes and maintains us. Gravity, electromagnetism, relativity, quantum mechanics, string theory. How intriguing! Real-life magic that competes with fairy tales. On this day, I began to look at the world through childlike eyes again.

It seems that every time that I break away from people, and allow myself to listen, the Universe speaks and teaches me a new lesson. Alone on a frozen lake of crystals, surrounded by ancient glaciers and jagged granite peaks, immersed in breath-taking beauty, I am a child again--full of spirit, and eager to learn. I still giggle, wide-eyed and amazed at this big, beautiful planet. There are moments that jump-start my heart. Moments that dazzle me. They are fleeting, but they are real. They are tangible. I live for these moments.

Magical Antarctica: