Happiness for the Here and Now.

We're busy people. You probably are, too.
Often and far too easily, life becomes a series of To Do Lists punctuated by appointments and piles of dirty dishes. Caught in a feedback loop of exhaustion and late nights, focused on keeping our heads down and our hands at the task, we rarely escape beyond the boundaries of asphalt and traffic. Respite is a TV screen and an easy meal.

That isn't true. My work actually often takes me out of the city and into the semi-wilds surrounding the Portland area. I often find myself tramping through fields and under trees, chatting up snails and writing poems about Vultures. It is Marcos, my Mister, who rarely breaks loose. He works endlessly and then comes home and works some more, all the while clinging to a big picture that promises us a happy Someday Soon. We do take regular trips to the river, but even these are covered in reminders of the city; freighter boats, other peoples trash, the downtown skyline looms on the rivers other side.

Add to this the fact that its been hot. 51% humidity. Record highs for Portland in June. Honking horns, sirens, steaming bodies melting and shriveling without air conditioner or wind from the right direction. Sweeping right past the windows, nary a breeze stops in to say hello. We needed some coolness. We needed some happiness for the Here and Now.

I was traveling to Silverton, a town about an hour south of Portland, to pick up a box from my mom sent from L.A. on the Cousin Express. I decided that I would bring the Mister along with me and budget and car troubles be damned! -we would follow those signs I always see for the Silver Falls Tour Route and we would find some water to swim in.

I like Silverton. It reminds me of Selma, CA, and makes me feel at home. The drive from Cousin Station in Silverton to Silver Falls National Park was a pleasant countryside route with cute houses and cows and a few surprising flower farms; A speckling of red, a blanket of purple, a foam of blue and pink

                                                                                                                                                                                           

It was a short walk from the parking lot to the Upper North Falls along walls of sword ferns and salmon berries, glowing in the sun. Wildflower's still bloomed in the relative coolness of the canyon. Camps of purple Foxgloves basked in the sun, while her white counter part kept to the shade. 

On our way to the Main Attraction we passed by a baby waterfall and lost our senses. You know you're from the San Joaquin Valley when you call a diminutive  trickling a "waterfall" and then proceed to run through it as happy as if it was what you came to see.

 

The damp coolness of the little alcove, the symphony of water and pebbles, enclosed by a wall of verdant green, made us delirious. Drunk were we on its simple beauty. We sat there for some time, passing the camera back and forth to snap pictures, whispering to maiden hair ferns, squealing over mosses. This may have been a silly spectacle; after all, there was a more majestic water fall, The Main Attraction of our trip, just a few minutes up the trail. Why did we linger in such a seemingly no-account place? It might take us longer to get somewhere, but I prefer to be this way, pouring out excitement over the little things. Because sometimes (all the time) the little things are actually not so little. The world is full of such sneaky wonders. Moss is really a tiny palace for the earliest members of the food chain. Water issuing forth from stone is a miracle.

It was under these Miracle Falls that I met Liverworts in the wild for the first time. They snuck up on me. The joy of this chance happening still has, at the time of this writing, not yet settled.

The area of Silver Falls was once a logging community founded in 1888. In the more remote corners of the park live black bears, black tailed deer, coyotes, and cougars. We didn't even see a squirrel. The only intimation of wildlife came from the song birds pontificating in the higher branches of the Western Hemlock and Doug fir.

The quiet rumble of a water fall, growing louder with each forward step, is something I'll never tire of. It is an other wordly sound that I didn't hear till I was an adult who moved to Oregon, so almost two years ago. Typically transfixed by the endlessness of them, I'll watch the water fall (verb) for ever, mystified that it never ends. How can it never end? I watch enrapt, waiting for them to trickle then settle into silence, but they never do.

However this time I wasn't taken with the verb of falling water, but rather with the result. The Upper North Falls cascade over basalt lava flows from the Oligocene period into a quiet, glacial cold pool. Glowing golden near the edges and gradually deepening from turquoise to a rich and royal blue at its core, the water swirls gentling in pockets, tumbling over low stones, till it becomes a creek and travels on. I was captivated.

 Somehow, by some stroke of luck or Grace, we were the only ones there.
Gradually, gingerly, we slipped in. Hooting and hollering at the shock of cold against our hot skin. The cold made us purely giddy, and we shouted and giggled with abandon. Marcos was, of course, the first one out and under, leaving me at the edge in a panic that he'd go into shock and drown. But he was totally fine. He's an all in kind of human, whereas I am I a layer by gradual layer person. It took awhile but I was finally in up to my shoulders, holding my glass on high above my head, shouting "OKAY. OKAY. I'M READY!" then asking "AM I READY??" and answering "I DON'T KNOW!" while Marcos shook in shivers and laughter

There is no graceful way to dunk your head under cold water. I sunk beneath the surface, completely panicked, and came up gasping with my hair slicked over my eyes. Marcos howled at the sight and sounds of it all. I went under one more time; same panic, same gasping, but this time with the presence of mine to rise to the surface so that my hair was slicked back and out of the way, sputtering as I went.

A baptism.
Immersed in the gold, the jewel tones, the ribbons of light weaving their length across our goose bumps, I experienced a presence of mind so complete I didn't even notice it happening. Only in reflection did I remark upon it. The cold and color banished any other thought and I was fully in the moment, in my body, in the light, under the trees, with my love, in a way I never truly have before.

We emerged alive. I said "I feel like a person." It felt so good to let go. When was the last time we laughed like that? When was the last time we felt joy that deep? High-fiving for our newly built neural pathways, this rush of adrenaline and dopamine was just what the doctor ordered.

Stretching out on fallen logs, we dried ourselves in the generous sun while munching on seaweed and sipping warm coconut water. By this time others had joined us with their folding chairs in tow, easing into the pool with hardly a reaction. A grandmother held a baby suspended above the shallows, swinging the little one low to dip precious toes in.

It was a wonderful place to visit. You should come here too sometime. Everyone should, at least once in their life, plunge into an unassuming pool of icy temperatures. When you rise, gasping, place your hand over your heart and be surprised at your body's persistent warmth, at the life coursing through you, glowing golden as it it tumbles and travels on.

[If you come, bring a snack, because fun requires fuel, and bring water shoes. They aren't necessary (I didn't have them) but they make walking across the rocks much easier (I wish I did have them). Also, if you bring your dog, pick up their poop and keep them on leash. Don't be that guy who ruins it for everyone else.]

Thank you for reading.
-A.H.

There are years that ask questions,

                                        and there are years that answer. -Zora Neale Hurston

                                            


What kind of year was 2014? Was it the question kind, or the answer kind?
If I said it was both would you call that cheating?

It was the answer kind. I can say that with an attitude that might mimic a form of confidence. Last year took my questions and cares into its arms and held them till they grew solid. It took time and repetition. In other words it took practice.

Practice is a word that has become so dynamic, the pairing of syllables and sounds hardly seems fitting for its meaning any longer.

Quantum Physics is mostly beyond me, but it is fascinating like women who wear three inch heels and mini skirts in the freezing night of new years even in Oregon; it is undeniably beautiful, heroic, and ever so gently saddening though you aren't quite sure why (its because it makes me sad to watch people shiver. Jesus multiplied fish and bread, but I couldn't multiply blankets and coats.) And though this school of thought tells us we make our own reality, and that we don't really know what happens to things when we aren't looking at them, because looking at them changes them ( i.e. magic) I would casually say that there are limits to the control we have over our lives, and I would remind us that there are systems of oppression and privilege that structure our day to day lives, and our inner selves.

That being said, there are some things I can control. I can control what I practice. I can practice fear, or peace. I can practice frustration, or compassion. Judgement, or love. I can practice tightness in my chest and muscles, or I can practice breathing and space. These are the things that are up to me. These are some of the answers 2014 gave me.

It is easier to practice in the face of adversity, because it is a tangible response to an urgent need. If I am dealing with an abusive co-worker, or a boss who wont pay me/is threatening my security, it became almost easy for me to remember to breathe and let go. It wasn't "easy", but after having practiced it for months, it was becoming my first response. My knee-jerk reaction had become peace and non-attachment.

Then life became peaceful in its own right. I now work for a wonderful woman in her beautiful home. My marriage is strong. School went smoothly. And in this absence of urgent need, I fell out of practice, and back into tension, judgement, rash thinking, and so much fear.

So the word of this new year is Practice. What do I want to practice? Breathing. Coming home to my body. Herbology. I want to practice the concepts Masaru Emoto practiced in his water studies; I want to be aware that everything around me is mostly water, and I can make it crystalline and lovely with my gratitude and love. I want to practice gratitude and love.

I've been reading the books of Thich Nhat Hanh as though they were devotionals, asking what I need to think about today, then opening to a random page. On Christmas Even I opened to the story of the Buddha's mother, and how we all are carrying baby Buddha's inside us (very appropriate for the day, I thought). On New years even I opened it to the story of the confrontation between Mara and Siddhartha. Even thought Siddhartha was long practiced in meditation, Mara still came to him, time and again. The book says

"Mara sometimes appears as doubt, sometimes as anger, darkness, jealousy, craving, or despair. When we feel doubtful or skeptical, he is there. When we feel angr, irritated, or lacking in self confidence, that is Mara. Siddhartha had been visited by Mara many times before, and he knew that the best way to treat him was to be very gentle."-Touching Peace, Thich Nhat Hanh, pg 40

Raised in the dichotomy of good vs evil, this approach of "being gentle" with the darkness is very new to me, but it has been so healing. Everything exists together. If we all have a baby Buddha in us, then we also have Mara in us, perhaps even a baby Mara, and both need our compassion. I have compassion on my darkness, which for me arrives in the form of my eating disorder and phobias/anxieties. I picture myself when these mental formations came to me, as a small child, coping in the only way she could. I keep her close. Harmless Monster, with flowers in her hair. Its alright to recognize her. She deserves love and compassion, in spite of and because of her darkness.

"Mara continued, 'I know you have practiced, but have you practiced enough? Who will witness that you have practiced long and hard enough. Who will testify that you gained enlightenment?' Mara demanded that someone confirm that Siddhartha was going to become a fully awakened person. At that moment, Siddhartha touched the Earth with his right hand, very deeply, with all his mindfulness, and said "The Earth will testify for me." Suddenly the Earth trembled and appeared as a goddess, offering him flowers, leaves, fruits, and perfumes... and Mara just disappeared."-Touching Peace, Thich Nhat Hanh, pg 41.

Mara demanded a witness to Siddhartha's changes, but perhaps that was not so misguided. Is it unfair to ask someone's credentials? We all crave a witness to our lives, our triumphs as well as our struggles. This is what friendship and community is about; bearing witness is a powerful thing. So could it be said that there was wisdom in Mara's demand, both in the asking for credentials and the reminder that we are humans, even the Buddha, and we need a community to bear witness for us? I don't know. I'm a novice. This could be a form of Buddhist blasphemy.

What does it mean that the earth is our witness? I thought about this all night and all new years day. We went to the beach. We made it with only an hour of daylight to spare. It was not cold, I didn't need gloves. We walked till we found a short seat of driftwood. It was damp and there was enough for just the two of us to sit awhile. And we did. I took off my heavy backpack and closed my eyes to the warm sun on my face. The gulls were quiet, except for a few lilting cries inviting the flock to move to a new spot of sand. Behind us a group of beach combers built a fire; even at our distance the crackling flames warmed me. I thought of the Earth as our witness, and I was chilled and comforted at once; for us she gives flowers and fruits, every kind of beautiful thing.

"The Earth, our mother, has brought us to life many times, and each time she receives us back into her arms. She knows everything about us, and that is why the Buddha invoked her as a witness."

I thought of the garbage island in the pacific ocean, of the mountains and their unnatural crew cuts, of Orangutans. I thought of Mike Brown and Eric Garner. I thought of wars and false flags and everything for profit. If she knows everything about us, then she knows these things too. Thus invoking her as a witness seems serious. Does she see this, our darknesses, and still vouch for our good nature?

I sat with the idea of what it would mean to be a person the Earth herself could vouch for. What would that look like, how would I need to live. I felt tremendous gratitude, because even in the face our darkness, there are still fruits and flowers, and every good thing. There are still stars, guiding us home. We have not been kicked off yet.

The sun sunk lower against the horizon and a chill crept in my coat, not unwelcome. Under and above all, the sound of the ocean that most people call a roar, but today it was not a roar, it was a song, gentle and varied, lifted us. My first day of practice.

-A.H.