Nature is more than just the far-removed great outdoors that humans continue to destroy through their existence. If we let her, nature can teach us everything we need to know about life, ourselves and the world. But to reach a headspace in which we can be receptive to her teachings takes intentionality; it takes time. Over the course of 8 days, I feel like I heard nature's voice, I listened to her guidance and I gained from her wisdom. I would like to share some of what I learned here today.
A Part of the Wheel
One of my favorite authors to read while traveling is Hermann Hesse. In books including Siddhartha, Beneath the Wheel, and Journey to the East, he characterizes nature as a giant cycle of unity through which all life revolves. Whether we want to or not, we move with nature, through nature and in accordance with nature. Thus to embrace nature is to join the collective tapestry of life. To reject nature is a futile attempt to mask the origins and, well, nature of your own existence.
Most of our days on the trek were spent in motion. We'd wake up early in the morning with the 5:30am sun, pack our belongings and make our way to our next destination, which could take as long as 14 hours (the sun doesn't set until 9:30pm). Each day en route from point a to point b, we'd experience all four seasons in the course of several hours and we'd weave through a variety of landscapes ranging from forests to lakes to snowy tundras. In a climate with such unpredictability, yes one needs to be prepared mentally and physically. And we were. But more important than this preparedness was adopting the mindset of acceptance. Most of the time, conditions are outside of our control. But in our day to day lives, establishing routines typically puts us in a place where more of life's variables are controlled and consistency or at least the appearance of consistency is more easily attained. But when you're out in the open with your life on your back, you control nothing. You are at the mercy of everything around you. Once this realization fully settles in (and believe me, it does early out there) one finds it advantageous to maintain a mindset of acceptance. While there's the option to battle the elements, fight through the terrain and stick a middle finger to mother nature, it only leads to frustration. Through accepting what comes as what is, realizing our inability to control it and the need to just move forward, we begin to move in tandem with nature and as part of nature.
We've all seen the bird that spreads its wings and attempts to fly directly into the oncoming wind. They kind of just float there, trapped in a wind vacuum making no progress. This is how we feel when we battle nature - we try and force round pegs into square holes, we run up the down escalator and every other idiom that conveniently captures the frustration of futility. But how beautiful it is to move with the giant wheel! How redeeming it can be to understand fully that dealing with adversity is an inevitable part of any journey and to embrace whatever comes our way is an important part of the experience and our existence. In welcoming both the good and the bad, we not only have a fuller experience, we move in tandem with nature. And when our shells of resistance crack and our pathetic barriers are torn asunder, we move as the river does - flowing effortlessly forward, jutting into crevices and back out of them, and seamlessly integrating with our surroundings.
Simplify
Now a month into my travels, one of the most rewarding aspects of the journey has been the clarity of mind it allows. I just have more time to do whatever I want. I have less logistics to consider and more time to reflect. As a result it's easier to be more present in the moment and it's simpler to feel full thoughts. I don't feel scattered and pulled in many directions; I feel a level of groundedness I haven't felt to this point in my life.
It's with this in mind that I've begun to practice walking meditation. Inspired by the writings of Thich Nhat Hahn, I try to at least once daily go for a walk in which I'm fully present, focusing only on observing my surroundings and the pace of my inhalations and exhalations.
The most rewarding walk I had was during day five of the trek, in which we arrived at our campsite by 1pm and had the better part of a day to just relax. Our site was situated in the hills above a strikingly blue lake and I decided to wander through the woods and meditate. Focusing on my breaths, I followed winding, sequestered paths and came to a lookout point above the lake where I observed a small bird for the better part of 30 minutes. Of the animals I've encountered, I find birds to be the quickest to move from place to place. And, hell, if I had wings I probably would too. But there was something about this small brown bird that struck me - its stillness. While its counterparts would call loudly and bounce around spastically from one tree to the next, this bird froze and made very small, incredibly deliberate movements. To observe the bird, I stood about five feet from it, perfectly still, focusing only on it and my breaths. The bird was taking advantage of a berry plant and in between bouts of extreme stillness, the bird would dart to a berry, pluck it from a bush, swallow it whole then transition back to a frozen position for several more minutes. I think the bird knew I was there. It's hard to not see me. But I do think my stillness allowed the bird to freely continue grazing. It was interesting. During its frozen bout the bird would stare me directly in the eye and we'd engage in a staring contest. I almost felt the bird saying "we good?" and me replying inaudibly "we good". The bird just wanted to eat. I just wanted to watch the bird eat. And that's what we did.
However high you're thinking I sounded during this encounter, my time with my winged companion inspired me to reflect on simplicity. All living things need to just do three things: eat, sleep and breathe. All life (well most life) revolves around and stems from the need to do those things. When something stops an organism from doing one of these three things, the organism needs to change its plan and find a different way to procure the need. There were 1000 different berry bushes on this hill. This bird could have easily flown away from a potential predator (me) and grazed there. But the bird didn't do that. The bird stood its tiny bird ground, it picked its tiny bird berry and continued shooting these berries into its tiny bird belly. I realized in that moment that what developed between the bird and myself was trust. The bird gave me a chance to observe it and I allowed the bird the chance to eat. We both got what we wanted. We existed in harmony. And all human emotions that convolute each moment, contrived needs that permeate our lives and the mental baggage we carry with us on a daily basis disappeared in that moment. The bird ate. I watched. And nothing else mattered. Life. Simple.
The Wind Lives
When I reflect on the eight-day trek, one of the aspects that continues to leap out at me is the wind. Never in my life have I encountered wind like the wind in Torres Del Paine.
I think humans enjoy personifying nature. It makes nature more relatable and, like many things humans do, if we make something more similar to us we don't have to work as hard to understand it. But to say the wind at Torres Del Paine had human characteristics or mannerisms would be misleading. Instead, it's just easier to think of this wind as a living creature whose movements very deliberately affected every moment of our trip.
The wind blew. The wind howled. The wind lept. The wind plucked flowers from plants. The wind tore through terrain. The wind turned faces away. The wind screamed. The wind danced a fiery-stepped dance. The wind bounced. The wind sculpted glaciers. The wind molded mountains. The wind dictated passages. The wind tore tent poles in half. The wind endangered safety. The wind forced me to lay prostrate. The wind wins.
There was never a moment when the wind affected me more than when I would try to sleep. At the end of the night, when we were tucked deep inside our sleeping bags inside our tents, the wind began its relentless assault. It was a furious display of sound and motion. You could hear a breeze approaching from off to the left, which would be engulfed by a gust from the right that together would tear through a tree above our heads and lead to the terrifying tree creaking sound. Wind would form on top of a mountain far off inconsequentially and quickly amass an army over the valley with an attack plan to indent our tent flaps and billow into our heads. The motion of the wind, like a pinball smashing from lane to lane, sculpted the tempo of our dreams, if we were lucky enough to have them. The wind heightened any anxiety about the following day's travels. The wind tucked us deeper into ourselves and our bags. The wind made you feel small, oh so small. Trivial and meaningless.
For seven and a half days, the wind was indifferent. The wind didn't care. The wind pummeled. And the wind never apologized.
But on day eight, something happened.
We arose at midnight to commence a sunrise hike at 1am. We made our way to the iconic Torres viewpoint for those unbeatable sunrise pics. After about 30 minutes on the mountaintop, I began to freeze so desperately I had to make my way back down the mountain before the rest of the group. The journey back to camp took me the better part of two hours. The whole way down my sleepless brain was working through the frustration it felt from so little REM in the last week, such inadequate nourishment and such cold. It wasn't the best headspace to venture alone down a mountain with. But I kept walking and with twenty or so minutes remaining in my descent I encountered a Dutch couple making their way up the mountain that were frozen behind their vaulted phones taking a photo. I turned to behold the object of their desire and noticed one of the most gorgeous rainbows I've ever seen jutting out from the mountain with a breathtaking complementary arc. I gazed upon this rainbow for five minutes and as I turned around to continue on, my thoughts slowly started to turn. I finally began to feel the accomplishments of the journey. And at that moment the wind did something I'll never forget. The wind pressed squarely on my shoulders and steered my wearisome body down the mountain. I felt the wind's hands, warm for me for the first time, caressing my back and in that moment it was almost as if the wind was saying "you put up with me for seven days. You've done something most people wouldn't dare do. You've passed the test. Now get down safely and get out of here. It's time to make my way to the next traveler."
I had felt the wind's fury each night. But for the first time I felt the wind's grace. I felt the wind's warmth. And I let the wind guide me. The wind stretched me to my limits without ever thinking to check in with me and here at the very end, the wind smiles. The wind comforts. And the wind protects.
The wind is alive. It will blow us back and forth. But it will eventually steer us in the right direction. We just have to put our head down and move forward step by step until that happens.
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