Alive and Walking
Last summer, I first went to New Port to visit friends. We decided to walk the entire Newport
cliff walk. If you don’t know them, they border many of the islands famous
mansions on an expanse of sea cliffs that wind their way up and down, some at
sea level, some high above, some paved and reinforced by man, others tumbled
rocks that are passable or not with the rise and fall of the sea.
I meditate daily and on this day, I did a special form of meditation, called
devic meditation, where the focus is on our shared connection with all living
things: animals, plants, earth, rock, water, everything alive that surrounds
us. Native American peoples believed that every living thing was a potential
messenger about our place in the greater cosmos. You could tell what to focus
on or what you might be missing by interpreting the animals or plants that
captured your attention strongly any time you were outside. If you met an
animal during your journey, you paid special attention. These encounters were described
as having an Animal Visitor. I had spent the summer learning about this. And
so, I opened myself to experience my connection with the natural world and
asked for any communication that might be sent for my benefit.
It had been years since our last visit. In the past,
my friends had walked swiftly. I had to work to keep pace with them and it took
most of my attention. While I really wanted to take my time to take things in
more, I felt that I had to keep pace. I breathed the air and paused
occasionally at the overlooks that dotted our path, but mostly I just thought
about the destination and keeping pace.
My trip last fall was different. I was different.
The meditation had opened my senses and years of mediation and taking time had
sharpened this as if all six senses had been in training for this moment. The
walk began beside a beach and went behind a club house bungalow. There were
rows and rows of plants I never remembered seeing before. Beach roses, my
friend told me. Magentas, purples, and whites intertwined with bushy vines and
the dark glossy, almost prickly leaves that all roses seem to have. Intermixed
were these odd reddish-orange berries. I thought they must be two different
plants that grew in the same terrain and climate, but they later appeared to be
aspects of the same plant. I stopped dead in the first five feet to put my nose
to one. Such a beautiful, sweet, smell. Fragrant like a warm, light syrup with
a deep finish. I began to smell one after the other. I put my nose to everyone
that called to me. I began to notice that the scent was different from rose to
rose, bed to bed. Some were more sweet. Some were more faded as if past their
peak for pollination. I’d never remember smelling so many flowers and noticing
such a difference in their smell.
It didn’t take too long for our first animal
visitor to appear. We rounded the first bend and saw the largest, most unusual
spider I’d ever seen. It was easily 3 1/2 to 4 inches tall. Jet black main body
and underbelly, bright yellow markings. It rested, totally at ease and content
on its web between beach roses, slender legs curled contentedly amongst the
strands, its back facing away from us and toward the ocean. I reveled at her
size and beauty, the unusual nature of her to my eyes. Fear never entered my
mind. I was delighted and shared my joy with her in verbal appreciation. Native
American teachings emphasize our connection with all living things, and our
ability to communicate through sound and expression, if not shared language.
Watch the animal kingdom: different species communicate all the time even
though they do not sound the same. Next time you are outside watch the
squirrels and birds discuss things, or listen to the blue jays announce that a
cat is nearby, or the coming rain. All you need to do is listen and observe. I
still can’t believe how large the spider was. In Native American traditions,
the animals we meet are considered sacred communications to us from Spirit, the
unseen guiding force upon which our lives rest and flow. Spiders represent the
creation of language and writing, or more broadly, communication. Anyone who’s
seen or read "Charlotte’s
Web" can relate to this. If this Spider was telling me there was writing
and communication in my future, than the writing before me must be
considerable!
As we continued to walk, I decided that I didn’t
want to try to keep the pace on this walk I respected that my friends would
walk at their pace; I didn’t expect or encourage them to wait for me. I was no
longer in a rush to finish or get somewhere. The walk *was* the point of our
day. I wanted to take it at a pace I would enjoy, one where I could enjoy the
flowers and my friends along the way if they chose to walk with me, the parking
meter be damned. I would pay the fine. So I stopped as my inclination drew me.
If a flower called to me, I smelled it. If I felt drawn to look in a direction,
I did. The first time I did this, I saw Spider. The next time it was a
magnificent sea bird. At first I thought it was a heron, but upon closer
reflection I decided it was my first cormorant. I had just been commenting to a
friend before the trip that I’d never seen one in person. What a gift. Among
Native America tribes, Cormorants are known for their ability to dive deep into
the ocean depths, hold their breath, and return unscathed with nourishment for
themselves and their families. Or in other words, they can enter a hostile
environment and return with what they need not just to survive, but flourish. As
one sat on a rock, I saw another appear from the depths. I noticed their dark
charcoal colored bodies ended in bright orange beaks of some length and
wondered why. As we walked we saw more and more of them, gathered in small
groups or larger families, diving and rising, diving and rising. I thought this
very auspicious as I have much in me that speaks of cormorant energy. I am
drawn to plunge myself into intensity to return with treasure. At first we
simply marveled at them, stating our joy to the ocean wind currents high above as
the sea crashed gently beneath us over well worn rocks as the cormorants dove.
Suddenly, our visit together felt like a reconnection, something I’d been
craving but trying not to force. The moment hung and swung on the currents of
the salty air. It lasted, the gift of experience shared together. We both knew
what it was to dive deep and come back alive.
As I walked my walk at my pace on this day I was
treated to the smell of salt in its many forms. The stagnant smell of water
slowly circulated, the intensifying smell of fresh salt air on a clean breeze.
I heard the many sounds of the sea. Sometimes I moved into a trail walking step
used by trackers and nature enthusiasts, called the fox walk. You can *see*
with your feet. I closed my eyes and deeply listened. I heard the song of the
sea separate into its many voices. Sometimes lapping, sometimes crashing,
sometimes rising, then ebbing, filling and emptying, the verging inside of us
manifested outside. I tasted it with strong pulls of air through my nostrils: the
heavy salt of the brackish inlets; the light salt of a quick running breeze; the
sweet taste of the beach rose fragrance. I felt the pressure of the air around
me like a gentle muscle. Even as I tired, I marveled at the beauty around me, a
feast for the senses. I had never walked like this before.
What was before black or white, stop or go, was now
a vital palette for the senses. I choose this in my life now. I choose to
move into it with openness and distinction. There is not just one smell of salt
or sea. There is not just one taste or one vista or one walk. There is not just
one sound. There are many. There are so many that they defy description. And as
my journey unfolds I can have a thousand more days like this, each just as
simple as their beginning. I step outside and listen, see, hear, open with my
entire body to what might be waiting. I didn’t need to go to Rhode Island for this, but this does not limit the
experience. I can go anywhere. My back yard, the street in front of my friend’s
house, or a place I’ve never been before. This is life in every moment. And I
relish it… I can recall the moment that I decided that I would neither dawdle
nor rush, the moment I decided to progress at my pace. That moment rippled. It
felt like my resolve. I will not live my life at another’s pace. Sometimes I
may choose to blend, as we all do, to the pace of the moment. But when I do it
will be my pace because I’ve chosen it.
