Presence --

This morning I am present to the clear blue sky, green bushes, and a large pine outside my windows. The weather has changed and this tiny room encased in windows is again warm enough to sit in--quietly for meditation, thoughtfully for writing, or creatively for painting, such as it is.

The wrens fly in and out of the bushes just outside. Flying away on the wings of the birds was a fantasy escape for me as a child. Being present was hard. My escapes were many. I became a character in a book, I flew on white fluffy clouds, I was transported to another kingdom in Kipling's tales. And I went down the rabbit hole with Alice on a regular basis. I learned how not to be present.

The safest place for presence was with nature. I could be with the woolly worms that I tried to get to climb up my fingers. I felt the moss--velvety or coarse. I talked to the trees in the woods, and examined gooseberries and the colors they turned as they ripened. The woodpecker was a special friend since he continued his work while I stood on the ground and watched.

At Dad's farm the limestone outcroppings were decorated with lichen of various colors. I tried (in vain mostly) to pry them off the rocks. I put a finger in the smooth space between the stickers on the prickly pears (cactus), and followed the small creek through the trees. I made faces over the spring's green water and listened to its gurgles.

It is no wonder that as I have recognized deep wounds from childhood, I have turned to God's creation for healing. Basking in the beauty of the mountains, streams, sunrises and sunsets--noticing the changing shadows and colors as the day moves on, I am renewed.

Are my weekly flights up the canyon to hike or snowshoe in RMNP escapes, or are they simply nourishing my soul and exercising my body at the same time? They are sometimes both. Yesterday I attempted to be fully present to the drive I know so well. As I came home I noticed that the colors of the canyon walls looked brighter in the cloud-covered afternoon than they had in the morning's sunlight.

We had expected a bright sunny day like the one we experienced last week. We hadn't had sunshine at Mills Lake this winter. What we did have was an almost wind-free lunch time sitting on rocks at the lake's edge. Overhead the clouds covered the sky, and as we turned to head back down, the wind picked up and the darker gray clouds filled with light snow moved our way. Soon the hikers we met starting up would be able to see only a few feet in front of them. We had experienced several days like that this winter.

Bright sunny vistas create an inspiring presence. Watching my feet and the path just ahead is more like my day-to-day presence. Just now. The present moment is what is. I was glad to be out in the mountains with my friend yesterday. It was good to be there. But I admit to disappointment that the sun didn't grace us with its light. That sun shining on the snow and glistening on the mountain peaks transports me. It's that light that God has implanted in us. It is with me in the present moment--when I allow its presence.

"Our true home is in the present moment. The miracle is not to walk on water. The miracle is to walk on the green earth in the present moment." Thich Nhat Hanh

PS: For a view of Mills Lake in winter (with a cloudy sky), go to the December 18th post about holiday thoughts.