be still and know...

While usually a devotee of The Food Network, today I watched a favorite cooking show on local tv. Its a Scandanavian cooking show where this guy, Claus, goes out to remote and beautiful locations and cooks. He hikes out to wherever with this efficient little portable kitchen he has and there, in front of a real sunset, or ancient castle, he cooks a gourmet meal.

Today he made something that looked amazing, but what really got me thinking was the way I felt when the camera panned to the scenery.
He was god-knows-where in Scandinavia, with icebergs floating past and the sun gently setting behind them. I felt an instant stillness as I watched, through the tv, such a broad open setting. I wondered, why is it that wide open places make us feel quiet, even calm?

This winter I have been reflecting on my time in Vermont in 1995/96. On top of the mountains in Craftsbury Common, I was allowed one cycle of all the seasons in real, honest to goodness nature.
I was an irreverent little know it all, and its a wonder the townspeople didn't vote me off the mountain after a week. Eventually I left of my own accord, sure that I couldn't get back to civilization fast enough. Now, with a little more clarity and a great awareness of how rare that kind of setting is, I'm almost embarrassed to admit how little I appreciated that time when I was there.

I remember walking from the bungalow dorms where I shared a room with a girl from Maine, nicknamed by the lumberjacks "Munchkin Wingnut".
The trek to campus was about a half mile, and from where we lived, it was a windy path cutting thru the woods and a field where the sheep would graze in the spring and summer. That path would take you out onto the main road which didn't have a name, just a number, although you could send a letter to Main street, Craftsbury Common and it would end up at the little post office on that road anyway.

It wasn't just the long walk, or the 3 story pine and spruce trees waving down at you, Mostly I remember the snowdrifts at night. I was 18 years old and prone to restlessness. If there was nothing going on at the dorms or on campus, wherever I happened to be, I would set off walking and after a few minutes I would find myself in the depths of a whole other realm of consciousness.
There is a stillness I would feel,walking that snowy path with stars and moonlight high above me. Its not just a feeling of calm, its an overwhelming sense of purpose and acceptance. For the next mile or so, I would be dedicated to quietly trudging through the nearly knee deep snow. But it wasn't a chore at all, no matter what kind of mood I was in. I would wrap my scarf and button my coat high and just set off, one step at a time.
Usually the snow would still be falling, silently. The sky would seem full of powdery tears and the wind would have blown the snow into layers and drifts along the path. The dunes of snow, created by the wind, resembled the folds of bed linens or a warm blanket. Sometimes there would be absolutely no wind at all, and the snow would fall as it it were just air.
However I felt, or whatever the temperature, I had to take this walk at least 6 times a day. I may have complained then , but not much that I remember. Even then I knew that I was feeding off of that feeling of something larger, grander than everything else I knew.

I don't know if I'm just being nostalgic, and that could very well be true as my heart twists in a lovely pain every time I think back to those days. I am just thankful that my memories of the walk, and the sense of being in the presence of the earth as it is- untouched, are still available to me now.

Sometimes when I'm sitting in my car, waiting for it to warm up in the parking lot, surrounded by dingy grey snow and hundreds of other cars and people, I try to close my eyes and remember the feeling and sound of my feet scrunching along in the snow, surrounded by silence and a permission from somewhere to be silent myself. Even now, more than 10 years later, those moments are the best definition I have for the word grace.