Disciples

I am a disciple of Mother Earth. What follows is one unusually dramatic moment in how it has been and is for me. She has many other disciples. Some of us are human. Among the rest of her creation, learning from her and teaching others about her is an elemental part of their every now. Soil. Stone. A moving, booted, foot. Despite the boot, the soil, stone and foot bond briefly, forever, and then separate. Another booted foot, a clothed biped, walking. Wind. Trees, whispering, sometimes singing, a vast, rooted, incomprehensible chorus of spruce, pine, redwood, oak, alder, sycamore, bay and others, in whose midst, with request and permission, I move, surrounded. Light. A bright, hazy, light blue sky. Moving white clouds. Massive, intimate, close and distant mountains, beneath, above, approaching but not yet arriving. Two lesser peaks, especially striking, rising from the wild valley floor, perhaps its ancient signal center. No obvious human presence, except my own, and no roads or buildings, though the signs of earlier interventions, including the slim but definite trail I now take, are evident. Rustling in a nearby chaparral bush. Another animal, moving, probably a lizard. Steep slopes, inches away. At the bottom, a clear, murmuring, sliding, leaping, life-giving stream, racing down to a wild, hidden western river. Subtle fragrances, filling the air, delicate, transparent, important. Deer, unseen, resting in quiet, shaded, seclusion, waiting for dusk. Black bears, nearby maybe, still undeclared, pursuing now their needs on other paths, or mine. A beautiful golden mountain lion, distant, or close behind, now silent, hungry, wary, seeking to eat, unaware of me and I of her, or stalking me but uncertain of my powerful spirit guide. This guide, a tall artfully-carved ebony and iron walking stick, is precious to my aging, tool-dependent, vulnerable, naive passage. It was gifted to me many years ago by my generous father-in-law, Mzee Hermas, a much-honored Shambala medicine man whose own discipleship for over ten decades of the very African, tropical, Western Usambara rain forest, led him to an intimacy, modesty, and understanding of that most energetic wild region before which I am and shall always be in awe. Rattlesnakes, basking in the high, hazy sun, one of them ahead around the next turn of my seemingly snakeless way, or not. A great stone outcropping, rising on my right, which I touch with my right hand and am warmed, filled with wonder and welcome, and a reassuring, unsettling ignorance. The omnipresence of a complex gentle pressure, a standing wave of enormous, unknowable strength, invisible, embracing, speaking simply to my every cell, without sound or words, teaching me, humbling me, whone with me. I recognize, again, this small expression of Mother Earth. Pausing, learning, blessed, I am then able to move on. The trail winds down, through forest shadow on a north-facing slope, no barriers raised, but conversations I do not hear between the many other creatures present who make this place their home, pass around and through me. How far I will go is undecided, but I continue to the oak, sycamore and alders who cling to the stream. I cross it on wet stones. I see no animals drinking now, only the plants. They and the stream seem satisfied. So am I, though I have been told that I will become ill if I drink. I am tempted, but don't, being cautious, drinking instead my own, inferior, ported water. Fallen leaves, sticks, small boulders, rocks, and speckled light accept each foot, as I move further down, following the determined stream. The trail becomes less certain, unlike the water beside it. I feel Mother Earth's presence, shimmering. Tempted to bare my feet, I do not; they are too tender. Yet, feeling, except for the stream, a marvelous quiet and much more than I can catch, I still learn. I am refreshed, even as I tire. I am not young. The small side canyon broadens into a substantial wash. In the wash, the trail vanishes. But I long to see the river and the heart of the valley. The stream hugs the canyon wall to my left, north, while I struggle through the white sand, boulders and broken branches of every size which fill the wash. I begin to fear, because I continue to weaken and the stream and the pull downward are strong. In the wash, I also fear rain, which can be swift and heavy in the mountains. I am learning from my teacher, though I am distracted. I begin to hear the sound of the river, and after uneven struggle, I reach it. It is a little river, as Mother Earth's rivers go and quite unlike the broad, deep muddy Red River which I grew up next to in northwest Louisiana. It is cool, crystal, water, here easily crossed on foot, and it is wonderful. The canyon which it inhabits is more wondrous still, absent of humans, warmer than the walls and peaks above, vested with an open, light-infused forest which seems primeval, full of energy and unfamiliar, mystical rhythms. I am in a great, enduring company which permits me entry for the first, and I suspect, last time. I walk down one side of the river, on an ephemeral wild trail, stepping over fallen branches, around glistening ferns, listening for sounds of delight or danger, or both, shaken with the waves pulsating from Mother Earth, in a place where I and my kind need not matter. I suspect that I have reached my physical limits, if I am to return to the car, beside the road, thousands of feet above. I begin to be unsure if I have even reached the river I sought. Perhaps it is further still, around the bend ahead in this fabulous, confusing, wild jewel of Earth. I do not have the time, energy, or perhaps courage, to walk around that bend. I cannot harm this almost mythic place, but others like me can and might, with their destructive toys. Even so, they will not come. They have no interest, and it is hard to reach. This is my hope. My home, with my family and friends and tools, is elsewhere, in the city, and even were I welcome I have not come prepared to visit overnight. With a terrible reluctance, I turn away from the seeming river and its canyon, thinking that I am leaving, not returning, home. Perhaps this is why barriers are now raised against me, within me. The way is now uphill. The bone-white boulders seem slightly larger, placed less conveniently. The shining sand is bright and deep, holding tighter to my boots. The old strong pieces of driftwood washed down in earlier storms prefer that I not pass around their outstretched arms. Mother Earth's presence is powerful here, and sympathetic, but she accepts that I might stay, and whether in human form I live or die this day is not for her the most important issue. I learn. My spirit guide, which I hold firmly in one hand or the other, saves me from unsure footfalls and keeps me upright and moving. It is, as it has always been, a great comfort, never more than now. The stream, as I move contrary to its wise flow, is to my right, still satisfied. In some ways, I too remain satisfied, but uncertain of the minutes, hours, ahead. The trail, I tell myself, will reappear, but in the wash, not yet. It seems that no large animals witness or concern themselves with my simple struggle, though my ordinary senses are not the keenest. All else there is aware of me, but only the smallest may feel threatened. Rattlesnakes love the bright warmth of the wash, but I see none. I stumble again, but my guide holds me firmly and I do not fall. The sky is open and I think it will not rain. Some other day, but not now. My ignorance, however, is wide and deep. I welcome the narrowing of the side canyon and my unavoidable return to the stream. Finally I escape, abandon, forsake, and with an uneasy regret, leave the wash. I may not see it again, but I will not forget it, or its good, challenging, magic. A feeling of relief comes with the recovery of the rough trail beside the stream. Its cool shade and much gentler surface promise a certain ease, but I must still go in a contrary direction, loosing energy and more. Mother Earth seems to suspect that I may regain the city. She is not troubled. Maybe I am, but I cannot wish to stay here without the humans I love, and who love me. Other things in the city I do not covet but do, as I must, accept and even enjoy, a victim like others of my perverted culture. This, Mother Earth assures me, will change. The matter of my return is, nevertheless, insecure. As I and my guide make our way upward, past the alder and the others, hugging the sinuous, singing, stream and listening to what is being said which I do not understand, my left hip begins to join in. This I understand better. None of my joints serve as smoothly as they did forty years past. My left side is weakest, and my hip is being hard-worked, step after step. As if to support the hip's complaint, my left knee begins its own. Both are not, at this point, more than mildly upset. The trail at last crosses the stream on happy stones to move decisively away, south and up the side canyon's wall. I stop, rest, and express my goodbyes. I cannot be pleased to give up this well-favored place, but I am committed. Whether or not I am able, I will now discover. As the path leaves the stream, the alders, sycamore, oak and bay remain behind, themselves bound closely to the water, while I seek the companionship of spruce, cedar, pine and redwood. The surface of the trail dries and hardens, once again soil and stone, and the forest shade is now less consistent. Beginning the steeper climb, with the high haze now dissipated by the sun's labor, I move in and out of an upland light which seems to pour straight from a star become almost too close. Though full of virtue, it can be wearing. My spirit guide strengthens me, but my hip and knee cannot, and their complaint deepens. I think again of bears and mountain lions, neither of which appear. I ask the trees for comfort, and as I touch with respect one great trunk or another, I get it. Grateful, I am able to continue the climb. I begin to think of the hip and knee's voices as pain, and start a subtle limp. Mother Earth whispers in my cells and I learn that though I need not leave, I will, both losing and gaining. I will never lose her. Since another human may not be on this trail for a week, or a month, or more, and my cell phone does not work in the mountains, I think Mzee Hermas could be saving my life, though, half a world away, he died decades ago. The right leg is surprisingly empowered, although it has developed a nibbling concern. I move slowly, pause occasionally, drink my water, and rise out of the canyon. Even as the air thins, breath, thankfully, is not a problem. A coastal redwood near the trail, providing high in its branches a place of rest for two intent ravens, possibly lifelong mates, reminds me that I am not far from the unfortunate, alien, resented and yet needed road, where I parked this morning. Exposed stone in the cliff, next to the path and now on the left, I touch with my left hand, hoping I will be embraced some other day, as I am this afternoon, by its ancient power. Mother Earth turns within me, though I am insignificant. Sounds of the road above intrude, a car passing, grating, unwelcome. This portion of my path is shaded, all the way to the end, and I relish the standing and fallen trees above and below, the small wood-filled washes which, in the rain, feed the stream at the side canyon bottom, evidence of many nows, a history, a herstory, a going on even as I approach the vanishing point of this path. I would love to come back, but if I ever reach the river again it will be to stay, since, on my own two feet, I will not be able to climb out. The high-country ridge upon which the road is built lies just ahead, and the pain I feel diminishes, partly in gratitude for nearly reaching my way home, and partly in thanks for the blessings the wilderness behind has given me this day. Mother Earth, I know from past experience and what she teaches me, will stay with me even in the city's heart, but, until I visit again, or succeed in living within wilderness, her presence will be assaulted by the clanging, clattering tools which congest urban life. It will not, I rejoice, silence her. Arriving beside the paved, stinking road, and my dangerous, fully-functional car, I haul myself into the driver's seat. Paradoxically, I am pleased, because I am comfortable driving and soon I will rejoin my people. Since I am a practical, peace-loving, nonviolent man who with them now survive as part of the dominant human culture, in the city I will do other things - for instance, several years later, carry my latest three-month old granddaughter, Emma Amani, on slow walks in the neighborhood, while we have our gentle wild conversations, she in her language and I in mine, both of us whone with each other, the sycamore and ravens near our houses, and Mother Earth. We are joined by her six-year-old sister, Sophie Makihiyo, who is a beacon of light in my favored life; so, each in their own way, are all my grandchildren. I have returned to this remarkable trail since the experience I described above, to the nearest place from which the glorious valley and its mountains can be seen. Even this shallow immersion in her is enough. My cells still sing. I continue as her disciple, in wilderness, and in the city so long as it remains. Whatever our age and limitations, we, all of her creatures, are whone. For what whone is, and much else that I believe Mother Earth teaches me, see the other essays on this site. And please, tell me what you have learned about Earth and our place in her. Together, we have work to do. Bill Luttrell, one voice of Mother Earth April, 2009 I had no camera with me that day. Only later in my wilderness travels did I agree to bring this tool with me. For me, it is a distraction; but it helps the meaning to be clearer on the website. In this essay, I can offer only one honest image, taken on another day. It is similar to the place I visited. I will not say that it is the same. Whones change, often.