rocky mountains

Note: This is a collection of my writings from my personal journal. A lot of it is thinking out loud, sorting through thoughts, processing the world around me with paper and pen. I share it with you because I think you’ll understand and relate to some of my ponderings. I’ve shared carefully here and know you will be careful in return. Thank you!

Love, JSL

It’s morning now. It’s cold. I can hear a cacophony of bird music breezing through the Douglas firs and the wind is singing careful arias in the aspen groves. Crescendo. Diminuendo. My hands are freezing. Each fingertip is an ice cap drifting on friction melted waters across the white of this page. And now the staccato of a woodpecker. How lucky am I to hear this symphony? How well it matches the score of my heart.

I’m brewing a second pot of Earl Grey, just to stay warm. Thank God the sun is just within reach of where I sit. As soon as it crested the top of Scout Mountain I could feel the air temperature swirling with warmth; like adding hot water to a cold bath. Ah. There now. A fresh cup of tea for my hands.

Penelope and I have been for a long walk and back. She looks like a small red pony galloping about in a tall Northern jungle. At one point, she located a handful of ruffed grouse that burst into flight and drummed deeper into the forest to escape her ferocity. At a bend in the trail, we stumbled into a few free range heifers. When they saw me they turned and trotted deeper into an aspen grove. With all the crashing and crackling of grasses and bush, Penelope was terrified and galloped down the trail, shrieking at the top of her lungs, until she was around the next bend and out of sight. Some watch dog. She’s all bark and no bite. I wonder what she feels when she is fearful. Is there the same thrumming of the heart that I experience? Is she grateful when I pick her up and speak those fears away — quietly and carefully?

The light here, as all morning light is, has been so soft and blue. It’s been easy to fill the memory card on my camera while sifting through the bits of detritus on the forest floor.

Each berry, each leaf is so delicate and unique. I want to honor each one with every individual image I capture. Each thing I see, each magical dapple of sunlight drifting down from a yellowing aspen crown, deserves to be remembered for the sacredness of its immaculate and unique design.

In the same way, I want everything I create to be uniquely concocted, special in its own right, worth claiming, collecting, cherishing, loving. I don’t think that’s too much to ask of myself as a creative person if indeed I do believe that my desire to create is a reflection of God’s ability to create. I look around and all is so good. There’s a crumbling humbling going on inside my chest. Who am I. What am I. This grace. This grace. I’m a child on my knees. There’s a bloom of faith.

I try to see the world around me fully; the detail, texture and holiness of each leaf, bug, branch, bird, fish and beast. I can’t help but want to catch everything in my hands in an attempt to cure this zealous curiosity that boils beneath the veneer of my senses. Is that wrong? In light of recent blog commenter harassment over catching and releasing fish, is it healthy to quench my curiosity? Is it healthy to allow my curiosity to go unquenched? Is it wrong for me, for my species, to interact so fully with nature, even if I’m graceful and careful in my quest?

Now the aspens are lit gold in the pour of sunshine through conifer. Penelope has climbed inside my down jacket and is keeping my core warm. The wind is moving through the wild rose bushes, swinging the rose hips like lady dancers on a light hearted stage. I’ve collected a bag of rose hips, the largest rose hips I’ve seen in all my life, to go in herbal teas this winter. I’d also love to encase a few in resin. Their color and shape is so sublime, organic, fresh and sensual. In point of fact, I’d like to encase this moment in this space beneath resin. I’ll wear it over my heart to help lighten the load on heavy days.

I can hear a shotgun pounding in the distance, every now and then. It’s Robert and Farley collecting dinner for our table tonight. How magnificent is that? To interact with nature this morning, to take what we need to feed our bodies and souls, and then to return to town, to the business at hand, to the grapes and plums staining the counter tops and splashing about until they find themselves locked tight in canning jars and sitting quietly on a pantry shelf until some cold day in winter we draw them out and sustain ourselves on their sun spun wholesomeness.

Oh. The wind. The wind. I find it remarkable that there are people in the world who have never heard the wind sigh like this, who have never been without the incessant white noise of the city. Urban living is beautiful and ripe with convenience and the steady flow of humanity! I sometimes fear I am out of touch with humanity. Has it hardened me, this hermit life, has it made me less compassionate towards humans? I’m removed from the scenes that present themselves to city dwellers. The homeless, the addicted, the impoverished. The living, begging and stealing of the streets; people selling all that they have, even their bodies, to feed themselves, clothe themselves, secure their next fixes. I don’t see them. Does it mean I don’t love them? Does it mean it isn’t my problem or I don’t care? Since I live in a wild space which is, ecologically speaking, just as vulnerable as a human being, is caring for this space my compassionate duty? Is this my responsibility instead? Do I tend to this space the way I would a broken person in a back alley? Is it right to see nature this way? If I need to do more as a human, for other humans, how else can I go about it besides sending money to organizations? I love elk. I love wolves. I love jackrabbits. But I need to love people too. We all need to love people. That’s where unity is. It’s not enough to just tolerate the existence of others, everybody needs love. I’m working on this concept constantly.

Last night, after the sun set, I looked up at the sky, imagined myself plucking a star as one would an apple. There are so many up there, burning and twinkling, which would I choose and would it be selfish to keep it under glass in the living room? Could I find a bell jar big enough for my pet celestial? The moon offered a bright silver pulse of light into the small morning hours. The window at my back, in the van, was open and thrust cool sheets of breeze down the small openings of my sleeping bag.

I didn’t sleep enough last night but I feel so refreshed this morning.

I haven’t showered but I feel so damn clean.

Robert is back now. Farley too. Happy. Manly. With birds in hand; probably the prettiest grouse in existence. RW and Farley have taken four of these beauties for our dinner table for the week and it was hard work and a fair fight. They look exhausted after hiking up to the top ridge of the mountain where a Douglas fir crown grows on nearly vertical slope to find this bird and bring it home.

I’ve just finished inspecting this large male up close. I turned him over and over in my hands, taking in his mustard yellow eyelids, his underwing feathers, his tail feathers….everything about him I took in slowly and carefully. Such a beautiful bird… I’m humbled by this harvest and totally blessed to be taking the energy of this animal into my body. There’s something so holy about hunting to eat, the effort of the work involved, the skill and courage it takes to so carefully end the life of a living thing. I feel so sad. I feel so thankful. Does everything always have to be so complicated?

In a few moments we’ll load up Talulah and coast down the mountain and into town. To ensure I return soon, I’m going to leave a small wedge of my heart behind. I’ll tether it to a tree and come back to tend it from time to time. It will be safe in these woods. Surely. It will be safe.

Heading up the mountain:

Calling Out Boise

Home Again:

The magic…

Sketchbook Journaling: September 19, Scout Mountain