Exercise as Meditation

It's been a while since I last posted: I've been working quite a bit and spending time on volunteer endeavors. I've also been creating space and new energy for spring, the new year, and the new decade. A piece of creating that energy is getting outside again to work in the garden and walk.

Walking in the neighborhood is convenient and quiet, which I appreciate. But I also walk on trails and in open space parks to change the scenery and listen to new bird song. No matter the location, I notice the little things, like how the bare spring branches look against the blue, blue sky. Or how tiny the purple flowers are on the ground cover that has just greened up. Or how the grumpy old man who walks with his grumpy dog twice a day, every single day seems a little less stooped when the weather turns warmer.

The robin's song is calming, while the grackle's and the red-winged blackbird's calls give me a little jolt of energy. When there is water, I tune in to the sound of it and slow down to admire a particularly fast or slow place in the stream and think about the fish that are (I hope) swimming there. Sunlight-dappled trails, stunning views of the mountains, and watching the growth of the leaves on the trees engender an intensely meditative state even while I am breathing hard and working with my hand weights.

Interestingly, what I do not like about these walks is interacting with other folks on the trail. Colorado walkers and bikers usually say hello as they pass, and I don't want to say hi back. Being an extrovert, this seems like a contradiction in my personality, but it does drive me a little mad. I am "in the zone" when I'm walking, and having to make eye contact with and greet dozens or hundreds of people takes me right out of it. I feel like I'm dating or networking at sonic speed, which is exhausting.

Exercise, for me, is meditation. I've tried to problem solve on these walks alone, and my mind is just blank. I wonder how many other people feel the same way. Perhaps we could all just say no to speed dating on the trail and instead focus on our breathing and just which shade of blue the sky is today. Would that make the time spent outside more satisfying, and more fun?

Fabulous Fall

Fall has always been one of my favorite times of the year. My birthday kicks off the fall season, the weather gets cooler, the foliage is beautiful, and the holidays are just around the corner. And who doesn't love to carve a pumpkin?



My 2008 work of art titled "Barfing Pumpkin": I put it up on the front porch on Halloween with a sign that said, "Hey kids! Don't eat too much candy on Halloween or you'll end up like this."






Here are some of this year's textures from my garden. Enjoy!

Back in the Saddle Again

Just before I started driving at 16, a car hit me while I was riding my bike. It wasn't a bad accident, but I couldn't get back on again. Every time I thought about riding, it made me feel kind of sick. It was OK for other people to do it, but not me, no sir, nohow.

As the years wore on, the sick feeling never went away when I thought about riding a bike. Walking became my preferred means of outdoor exercise. "You see more than when you're riding a bike anyway," I'd think, feeling smug as the cyclists whizzed by. I'd point out a particular flower to Gary or Lindsey and stop to smell it. We'd walk down to the pond to see if the turtle was sunning himself on the log. I'd watch how the seasons change the gardens along the many paths I walk: the incremental changes you'd never see if you fly by on a bike.

Then a couple of months ago, my sister bought a bike. My mom and stepdad started riding again, too. We were all talking about it one day, and a switch clicked in my brain. I wanted to ride. I test drove my sister's bike in my Crocs and jammies in the back yard. I knew I wouldn't crash, and I didn't. I knew I could balance, and I did. I knew I could stop, and I did.

I rode for five miles on the Ralston Creek and Clear Creek trails yesterday. As I peddled harder, I felt the thrill of speed. Oh, I'd forgotten how fun this was. Birds and trees and ponds flashed by in seconds. I almost felt guilty, and I stopped a couple of times to look at this waterfall or that bird. But mostly I just took it all in. The smell of the water and the green spaces, the cotton flying up my nose, the bugs bouncing off me, the joy of moving along under my own power.

Perhaps it's a metaphor for the rest of my life, this taking charge of my fear and changing an old belief in the blink of an eye. What would happen if we pushed through that old programming every single day? What would my life look like? What would yours?

Everyone's a Poet

Gary and I celebrated our fifteenth wedding anniversary this year with a poetry date at Bear Creek Lake Park. We ate a gourmet picnic lunch, read poetry, and went for a walk on one of the many trails. Listening to the birds and cicadas was heaven.

One of the books I had checked out from the library was Pizza, Pigs, and Poetry: How to Write a Poem, an entertaining book written by our nation's first Children's Poet Laureate, Jack Prelutsky. Not only did I laugh out loud a few times, I got so tickled I snorted. Perhaps the pigs in the poems had an effect on me.

Mr. Prelutsky has lots of good advice about how to write poetry, even if you're not part of his target audience. Though I've heard it before, it stuck with me this time: Write what you know.

it's still summer

the rain comes

nights are cool, cooler

than the weeks before

the air is chill

with wet

I shiver

anticipating fall and

slipping a sweater

over my head

smelling woodsmoke and

damp leaves

Reflections on Communing with Nature

Bug spray on top of sweat on top of dirt on top of sunscreen on top of sweat on top of bug spray—a modern girl surviving in the forest

There is absolutely nothing like the constant sound of a babbling brook to set your mind at ease.

When I was a kid, I climbed huge boulders on the sides of mountains and threw rocks in streams to see how deep they were. I still do that.

It takes a few days of being away from civilization for the mind to quiet itself.

We have some things to learn from dogs, like when to lie on the dirt and take naps in the sun.

In the mountains, you must be prepared for fifty degrees of temperature change in one day. In July. No kidding. Really.

“Three-season tent” really means “You’re going to freeze, so you better have a really good sleeping bag and a hat.”

Flexibility and balance come in handy when putting on your long underwear while standing on the tops of your shoes.

Wildflowers are the best, most beautiful flowers of all.

Impressions from a Forest

“Is it sad to camp in a grove of dead trees?” I ask.

“No,” he says, and he means it.

We think we see a specimen of the dreaded pine beetle, the one that’s done the dastardly deed. Whatever it is, it flies with its legs hanging straight down like one of those spacecraft on My Favorite Martian. Its antennae are a little bit longer than its body—creepy--and they remind me of curved, serrated knives. A whole lot of weird in a small package.

One lands on the table next to me. I slide my pen tip up under its head to see what it will do. I don’t really want to share the table with it, but I don’t want to hurt it either. I am in its space after all. Nothing happens. I slide the pen out. I think. It waits. I wait.

I slide the pen back over to its side of the table and gently touch one of its front legs. OK, that did it. It leaves, but it doesn’t just fly away like any other self-respecting bug. It takes a few slow steps toward the edge of the table and then lifts its wings and launches itself in the air, flying in its awkward, slow way over to the next little stand of almost-dead trees.

I guess we know who’s king of this jungle.

Peace on the Plains

Over the Memorial Day weekend, Gary and I went birding on the plains east of Denver. I know, I know--it's kind of strange to spend a beautiful sunny day out on the windy prairie in the middle of nowhere. But we have a knack for picking trips that place us exactly where no one else is. And it was the right choice.

Driving on highways and dirt roads that ascend into the great big empty blue sky was pretty close to Nirvana for me. We added at least a dozen birds to our life list and saw environments and bird behavior that we'd never seen before. We glassed pronghorns that were watching us from miles away. We talked about everything and nothing. My thoughts were clear and sharp and then altogether gone.

Our last stop was the Ramah Reservoir, which you would never find unless you were looking really, really hard for it. As we drove up, I was thinking plains + water = trillions of mosquitos, right? But there was a stiff breeze, and I didn't see them at all. We stepped down from the parking area about two feet to start walking toward the lake, and I was immediately enveloped by a hum so loud and so big I felt like I had walked into an alternate universe. There they were. If a bird would fly with his mouth open, he'd have his dinner in thirty seconds flat.

The prairie wind drove pioneer women insane, and after having spent a day out there, I could see why. It's relentless, and it blows dirt into every crevice. But it also keeps away the bugs.

Away from Civilization--Sort Of

My nephew, Milo, basking in the sun after a cold, cold night camping

Our camping trip this weekend was fun, but we had to leave sooner than we planned. Every afternoon we had a major storm. And when I say major, I mean one day lightning struck our campsite and one day we had a half-inch of hail. And at 9,000 feet, it gets COLD at night after it rains. So Mother Nature did her part to let us know how inconsequential we are in the whole scheme of things.

But I could deal with all that. What was so funny is that we drove three hours to get away from it all and ended up in a campsite (not a campground--we won't stay in them) where we could hear ranch dogs barking, cattle lowing, and traffic on the dirt road about a half-mile from our camp. But we knew the rain was coming, so we had to pick a place. And the last day we were there, there were two gunshots VERY close to our campsite. Apparently it's hunting season, and apparently you can hunt in the U.S. National Forests. Needless to say, we left immediately. How could we feel comfortable hiking or even moving around in our camp knowing that we could be perceived as prey by our fellow humans? Yikes!

There were many beautiful moments on this trip, though:

• A study of grasses in bloom (see photos below)
• Moonlight shining on a tree at night, which made the new growth look like silver magic
• The haunting call of an owl at dusk
• Tiny little sounds of bats hunting
• Quiet contemplation of the scenery while savoring the delicious dichotomy of having half of my body in the shade, cool, and the other half in the sun, roasting