Balsamea Aranyaka

Added today to our Ponder This blog page, a collection of favorite quotes:

“When our beliefs are based on our own direct experience of reality and not on notions offered by others, no one can remove those beliefs from us.”  – Thich Nhat Hanh in Living Buddha, Living Christ, p. 135

Well … almost no one.  There is oneself.  My beliefs have changed many times as a result of changing experience of reality and the vicissitudes of delusion.

-The Balsamean

On Weather

Another personal essay by Zivara from his Summer 2003 journal.

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When sometimes I am reminded that the mechanics and shop-keepers stay in their shops not only all the forenoon, but all the afternoon too … I think that they deserve some credit for not having all committed suicide long ago.
– Henry David Thoreau

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June, 2003 – Spring in the Adirondacks has finally warmed up and dried out after a wet, cool beginning.  Still, nothing about the weather has stopped me from enjoying the outdoors.  Being out there under all kinds of conditions, including rain, wind, snow, ice, darkness – things people deem negative – are opportunities to enjoy the experience of reality in nature as it really is, not merely as it is in “fair weather.”  Each condition is a unique and enjoyable experience in its own way.

For me, the least preferred condition is high heat (over 80) with full sun.  But those are days for being in the water and slow saunters in shady places, and there are plenty of opportunities for that.  I’ll take a cloudy or partially cloudy day over a full-sun day any time except in winter when the sun is a better friend to me.  Some day I want to be “out there” in a hurricane, hunkered down in a hollow, ready to leap and run out of the way if a tree comes down at me!

One night I stayed out until well after dark and never turned on a flashlight, so my eyes could adjust and get their night vision.  Then I walked back to the car, partially cross-country and partially on the trail, in what most would call “complete darkness.”  It was not “complete” at all.  Humans do have some capacity for night vision.  Night walking makes for very mindful walking, too, when all your attention is really on walking, not on how you’re going to pay the bills or deal with tomorrow’s appointments.

We are like aliens on our own planet.  The experience of “adverse” conditions in nature is not really adverse!  Each has its own beauty.  Shutting ourselves in against them leaves us disconnected from reality as it really is, knowing only a partial reality that we create in our buildings and yards and cars, even our gardens, but not the one filling the majority of the space in the world.

We know most of the roads and stores and major buildings within fifty miles of home, but we don’t know our way around a single square mile of any woods without well-beaten paths, and many can’t even navigate those without taking wrong turns.  Many people can’t even use the sun to tell them what direction they’re going.  Neither would they recognize the same large tree in the woods if they walked past it ten times, usually because they’re too busy thinking about other things and other places and other times instead of what is right in front of them in the present moment.  We’re too busy going someplace else to enjoy where we are.  We’re too busy racing forward to take a moment to turn around and see where we came from, which is the best way to recognize the way home.

Thoreau once wrote, “I believe that there is a subtle magnetism in Nature, which, if we unconsciously yield to it, will direct us aright.  There is a right way; but we are very liable from heedlessness and stupidity to take the wrong one.”  I find it interesting that he said “unconsciously yield to it,” then claims that it is heedlessness and stupidity (or not being consciously aware) that gets us lost.  This points up the need to learn to know that “magnetism in Nature” by conscious effort, by heedfulness and careful attention, until it becomes second nature, so we can then “unconsciously” follow it the way we “unconsciously” drive a very complex machine at the death-defying speed of a mile a minute (and faster) over fantastic distances.  If we put half the effort into learning what nature is doing within our sight as we put into learning to drive and maintain a car, we’d all be smarter than foxes and owls in knowing nature, and never afraid of the dark.

I can sit or stand still for an hour in the woods and just look at what is within immediate view, and do it repeatedly at the same place over and over again throughout the seasons, and see completely “new” and different things every time.  Not to mention hearing, feeling, tasting and smelling, and the apparent changes, or differences, incurred by changes in daylight and weather.  Just a small change in the speed of the wind makes a place altogether different.

That’s why I spend so much time on the same trail and in the same wooded area over and over again.  It’s also why I’ll never tire of the woods and trails within ten miles of where I live now.  To me, going ten miles away is to the outer limits of my territory.  Ten miles!  In eight months of living here, I don’t yet know one percent of the public land within three miles!  (I’m surrounded by public lands … one of the best things they do with my taxes.)

An example of this phenomenon of being unconscious of reality is that I believed I had to carry-in rocks to make a fireplace at my little “Big Pine Refuge,” a plot 200 feet off a certain trail.  So I dutifully hauled in dozens of rocks from the trail and the creek, a few at a time, over many visits.  But with each visit to the place, and repeated observations of the surrounding fifty feet, I learned more about it.  Finally I found that there were enough large rocks within fifty feet to make a wonderful fireplace that could be there for a hundred years before nature buries it in her inexorable progressions through changes of state.  In just two days, using only what I found within fifty feet, I built a fireplace larger and more fortified than I could have made in months with scores of the rocks I had strength and will enough to carry from the trail or the creek two hundred feet away.  Now, mostly for the sake of tradition, I still bring in at least one rock on every visit, to build a cairn, a monument, a cenotaph in memoriam to billions like myself who have died and have been dying of life detached from reality.

I am aware that at any moment a microburst of air can blow down the huge Pine (of nearly a three-foot diameter) nearest my fireplace, or that it may just fall over of its own weight at any time.  When the great Pine goes down, its roots will flip up and toss about my silly little monument like a house of cards in a gale.  I’ve considered this carefully, and determined that it is no matter for concern.  The joy has not been in having it, but in building it, in being there, in all the hikes associated with each visit to the place, in all the real living simply and joyfully lived there and nearby.

It is much more a monument in homage to the God who loaned me the Big Pine Refuge than it is a fireplace.  There I am much more naturally inclined to prayer than in church or in my apartment.  That place is a church to me.  (I may yet learn truly that every place and every moment is sacred.)

I should write a Will to have the ashes of my carcass dumped into this fireplace by a few friends gathered to build a fire in it, with the supply of wood I stacked little by little in a hidden stash nearby, burning a tribute on top of my ashes to celebrate the passing of life enjoyed there.

Though it seems that I enjoy such things more alone than in most kinds of company, it would thrill me no end to know that someone else came to regard and enjoy the place as I do.  But that may be impossible for anyone who did not experience the transformation of the plot from just another spot in the woods to a refuge.

I don’t have a fireplace there.  I have an altar.  And I did not build it.  It was there already, just waiting for some idle arms and legs to bring it together, and a heart to appreciate it and the process of its appearing.  In a sense, it has been there always, partly inside of me and partly scattered in pieces on that little plot of ground, waiting for a long time to materialize, using me as part of its process, not at all anything that I can call mine.  It is a temporary gift for me to enjoy while I can.

I cherish it more in knowing that at any moment it may disappear, as do all things, and as will I.  Everything changes.  Nothing is forever but God, the All, the Nameless, the Placeless, the Presence in all presence, the Conscious in all consciousness.  I seem to know this best when I am alone in the woods.

I think it’s true that I’ve never been to the same place in the woods twice without finding it different (and I add to the changes by my repeated presence).  Not so in our cloistered world of houses, offices, stores, cars, roads, and sidewalks.  We do all we can to create sameness and familiarity, which is the opposite of what Nature does … and what God does.  We box ourselves into a fabricated reality for security, but it makes us falsely insecure when pushed out of the box, which is inevitable and frequent.

Not that I don’t appreciate my little boxes, like my stone fireplace/altar.  I enjoy creating them, too.  It’s human nature to do so.  But again in the words of Thoreau, “To enjoy a thing exclusively is commonly to exclude yourself from the true enjoyment of it.”  Even a sacred refuge can become as boring to me as a TV commercial if I abuse myself of it with exclusive attachment.  The fact that my “Big Pine Refuge” will be destroyed eventually by nature is something good to know.  So I happily regard it as a temporary gift, and gratefully acknowledge that there are many more to be experienced everywhere.

I laughed out loud when I read in the same Thoreau essay of 1862, when this country was still almost completely wilderness, “When sometimes I am reminded that the mechanics and shop-keepers stay in their shops not only all the forenoon, but all the afternoon too … I think that they deserve some credit for not having all committed suicide long ago.”  No wonder I’ve felt suicidal at times.

Besides … getting back to the matter of the weather … many forecasts couldn’t be more wrong if they intentionally lied.  Many are the most pleasant days, with just a few quickly passing showers, when they had predicted rain for the whole day.  So if I depend on the forecasts too much, I’ll miss a lot of “good” days, and there have been many “good” rainy days, and snowy days, and dark nights, too.  They’re all good.

Zivara

Quoting from The Company of Trees by Joseph Jastrab:

I find myself walking the same wooded trails over and over again. This allows me frequent visits with a few trees with whom I’ve become closely acquainted. I watch how they handle themselves in the wind, admire their steadfast grounding in the earth, the strength and flexibility of trunk and limb. Through it all, they stand. They invite me to do likewise. I waver. I want “to keep my options open.” I can imagine no envy in them for my ability to wander across the earth in search of my place. None whom I’ve met have given me the slightest inclination that they would trade places with me. That’s the thing about trees, they don’t trade places. They belong.

They live forever at home. Their commitment to the dark earth they stand on roots them into something eternal. No, they watch me wander, but do not lose themselves in the watching.

Buried in the origins of our language, I find an ancient reflection of my feeling for these trees. The word “true” and the word “tree” have sprouted from the same Germanic root. This gives me hope. What we recognize in the life of another is always something that lives inside us – something waiting to be seen and claimed by our own eyes.

Strands of hemlock have offered a particularly warm invitation to be among them. The silence they generate is perceptibly different than that of a stand of oak or maple or even their close cousin pine. I cannot continue walking through a hemlock grove without pausing for a moment. My eyes are attracted to the way their lacy layers of needled branches disperse the light, scattering the ground with drifts of sunlight. Their straight trunk and furrowed bark embody a simple dignity they are not ashamed to hide.

My ears relax into the soft drone of their branches at play with the wind. But it’s something else that brings me to a standstill – something so refined and spacious about these beings. They have the power to absorb my busy mind. They leave me mindless.

[Read more from Joseph Jastrab at The Hero's Journey Programs website.]

Mr. Jastrab’s essay struck a resonant chord in me, as I have had similar relationships with trees, on an individual basis, and with groups and types of trees. Mr. Jastrab expressed my feelings about it almost exactly.

On his note about the roots of the words “tree” and “truth,” according to Merriam Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary 10th Edition (1995), the history of “true” reads like this:

Middle English “trewe,” from Old English “treowe” (faithful); akin to Old High German “gitriuwi” (faithful), Old Irish “derb” (sure), and probably Sanskrit “daruna” (hard), “daru” (wood).

For “tree” they offer this etymology:

Middle English, from Old English “treow;” akin to Old Norse “tre” (tree), Greek “drys,” Sanskrit “daru” (wood)

No surprise then, that so many wisdom traditions venerate trees, or find inspiration in meditations and contemplations upon them, or develop wisdom analogies and parables related to them. This may give a whole new sense to the Pagan origin of our modern tradition of Christmas trees.

Some samples of “tree truth” …

Larger and finer meanings are read into the older legends of the plants, and the universality of certain myths is expressed in the concurrence of ideas in the beginnings of the great religions. One of the first figures in the leading cosmologies is a tree of life guarded by a serpent. In the Judaic faith this was the tree in the garden of Eden; the Scandinavians made it an ash, Ygdrasil; Christians usually specify the tree as an apple, Hindus as a soma, Persians as a homa, Cambodians as a talok; this early treee is the vine of Bacchus, the snake-entwined caduceus of Mercury, the twining creeper of the Eddas, the bohidruma of Buddha, the fig of Isaiah, the tree of Aesculapius with the serpent around his trunk.
– Charles M. Skinner, Myths and Legends of Flowers, Trees, Fruits and Plants, 1911

For he will be like a tree planted by the water,
That extends its roots by a stream
And will not fear when the heat comes;
But its leaves will be green,
And it will not be anxious in a year of drought
Nor cease to yield fruit.
– Jeremiah 17:8

Then I thought, “I shall die in my nest,
And I shall multiply {my} days as the sand.
My root is spread out to the waters,
And dew lies all night on my branch.
My glory is {ever} new with me,
And my bow is renewed in my hand.”
– Job 29:18-25

Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.
– John Muir

Dear friend, all theory is gray,
And green the golden tree of life.
– Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, in Faust

And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
– William Shakespeare, in As You Like It

The method of Plum Village is that whenever we look at a tree, which is swaying around in the wind, we should not be too attentive to the top of the tree. Bring your eyes down to the trunk of the tree, and you feel more secure. Because when we look at the trunk of the tree, we see that it is being held by roots which go down very deep; it is very solid. And we feel differently; we feel the tree will be all right. But if we look up at the branches, we feel that they can be broken at any time.

Our person is the same as far as our body and our mind — we have roots going down deep. If we just look at our emotions, we feel very feeble, frail. But if we can come back to our roots, we will no longer be the victims of the storm. This solid part of our body is below our navel. When we feel a very strong emotion, we shouldn’t dwell in the area of our brain or our heart. We should not sway around in our thinking or our feeling. W hen we have a strong emotion, we should bring our attention down below our navel and dwell in that place. We should breathe in and breathe out, being aware of the rising and falling of our abdomen. Sitting, we are aware of our abdomen rising. Sitting, we are aware of our abdomen falling. We practice like this because the abdomen is the root of our body. At the same time, it is the root of our mind. The root of our mind is not the mind consciousness, but the deeper levels of the store consciousness.

So we should not allow this feeling to blow us around from on top. Instead we should come down to the trunk of our being, which is lower down. If we know how to sit solidly for 15 minutes, breathing in and out, and being aware of the rising and falling of the abdomen, that emotion will pass. We will be able to live again. We will smile and be able to say, “It was just a storm. And I was skilful in that storm, I was able to return to my root.”

– from a Dharma Talk given by Thich Nhat Hanh on February 19, 1998, in Plum Village, France.
The Sutra on the Four Establishments of Mindfulness – Mindfulness Of Body and Feelings

The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way. Some see Nature all ridicule and deformity, and some scarce see Nature at all. But to the eyes of the man of imagination, Nature is Imagination itself.
– William Blake, 1799, The Letters

I frequently tramped eight or ten miles through the deepest snow to keep an appointment with a beech-tree, or a yellow birch, or an old acquaintance among the pines.
– Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862)

Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?

– Walt Whitman, Song of the Open Road

God is the experience of looking at a tree and saying, “Ah!”
– Joseph Campbell

Keep a green tree in your heart and perhaps a singing bird will come.
– Chinese proverb

I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do.
– Willa Cather (1873-1947), O Pioneers, 1913

Sometimes Thou may’st walk in Groves,
which being full of Majestie will much advance the Soul.
– Thomas Vaughan, Anima Magica Abscondita

The groves were God’s first temples.
– William Cullen Bryant, A Forest Hymn

A tree falls the way it leans.
– Bulgarian Proverb

And see the peaceful trees extend
their myriad leaves in leisured dance—
they bear the weight of sky and cloud
upon the fountain of their veins.
– Kathleen Raine, Envoi

The creation of a thousand forests is in one acorn.
– Ralph Waldo Emerson

He that planteth a tree is a servant of God, he
provideth a kindness for many generations, and
faces that he hath not seen shall bless him.
– Henry Van Dyke

Life without love is like a tree without blossom and fruit.
– Khalil Gibran

When you enter a grove peopled with ancient trees, higher than the ordinary, and shutting out the sky with their thickly inter-twined branches, do not the stately shadows of the wood, the stillness of the place, and the awful gloom of this doomed cavern then strike you with the presence of a deity?
– Seneca

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the ages can.
– William Wordsworth, in The Tables Turned

That each day I may walk unceasingly on the banks of my water, that my soul may repose on the branches of the trees which I planted, that I may refresh myself under the shadow of my sycomore.
– Egyptian tomb inscription, circa 1400 BCE
(Sycamore trees were held to be sacred in ancient Egypt and are the first trees represented in ancient art.)

Because they are primeval, because they outlive us, because they are fixed, trees seem to emanate a sense of permanence. And though rooted in earth, they seem to touch the sky. For these reasons it is natural to feel we might learn wisdom from them, to haunt about them with the idea that if we could only read their silent riddle rightly we should learn some secret vital to our own lives; or even, more specifically, some secret vital to our real, our lasting and spiritual existence.
– Kim Taplin, Tongues in Trees, 1989, p. 14.

The oldest living thing known in the world is a tree. It is a Bristlecone Pine known as “Methuselah,” in the White Mountains on the California-Nevada border, at an elevation of over 10,000 feet. With a trunk over 4 feet wide, and height of about 55 feet, it is estimated to be more than 4,700 years old. There was one a few hundred years older, but someone cut it down to see how old it was! See the PBS website for their program on the Methuselah Tree.

- The Balsamean