When Butch and Sundance were trying to go legit, they were interviewing for jobs as payroll guards for a Bolivian mining company owned by a crotchety geezer named Percy Garris. In between spits of tobacco juice, Mr. Garris was explaining why he often can’t make payroll on account of the payroll thieves that frequently plague his operations. Upon notice of Sundance’s revolver in his lefthanded holster, Garris requested to inspect the piece asking, “Can you hit anything?” “Sometimes” came the response. Garris then produced a rock he happened to be carrying in his pocket for reasons that don’t matter to the plot, threw it several yards down on the ground and instructed Sundance to “hit that”. Sundance stood motionless, aimed and pulled the trigger. He missed the stone by a foot to the right. Butch was agape in disbelief and as Garris turned to walk away, Sundance asked “Can I move?”
“Move? What the hell ya mean move?”
In a split second, Sundance turned around in a crouch and hit the rock twice. “I’m better when I move.”
I have been studying contemplation and have been encouraged by my guide to find a quiet place and sit still, to clear my mind and reflect. The exercise has its merits, especially when I am making acquaintance with a tree or bend in a stream. But I am often distracted by the moan of distant iron horses and flying machines that breathe fire and spit noisy bursts of carbon, shattering the stillness. My spirit turns from quiet contemplation to disgust and ambivalence.
I was given an assignment. I was to go to a quiet place I knew and spend time there, a few hours. With no agenda, no plan, just be there. I chose a campsite on Abrams Creek in the Smokies. The hike in was just shy of 6 miles. I had to ford the creek just past the trailhead. The water was swift, cold and over my knees in places. The slippery rocks that paved the creek bed required focus and concentration. With the ford complete I found a rock sized perfectly for sitting and proceeded to dry and warm my bare feet.
Upon warm, dry and re-shod feet, the hike continued. The smells of the woods came into my consciousness and I was serenaded by the diverse choirs of birdsong. A squirrel chattered my presence, alerting her tribe of an unwelcome visitor. The sun rays filtered through the trees.
My ecstatic euphoria was suddenly shattered with a sound from miles away, echoing through the trees across the interstitial valley. Ironically, the sound emanated from from a mountain route called US 129, or more popularly, “The Tail of the Dragon”. The Dragon has 318 curves across 11 miles of paved mountain terrain. It attracts motorcycle and hot rod enthusiasts from all over the world to test machines and prowess against the Laws of Physics. Sometimes, the Earth wins. But this morning, the roar of a solitary 8 cylinder engine with a high flow, unrestricted exhaust system was winding up and down with every curve in a relentless chorus, as though Smaug had awakened to the discovery that his gold had been pilfered.
Amidst the ire I felt in that moment, there came to mind the Native American legend of the Windigo, a spirit that preys upon greed, selfishness and isolation. This Windigo seemed to hover over me for several minutes until I came to a blowdown. I always carry a medium sized folding saw for when I come upon fallen trees that cross the trail. If I cannot completely clear the trail, I can usually clear enough branches to get over or under the tree more easily. This task took about 15 minutes and when I had cleared the path, I realized the fire eating spirit was gone and Stillness had returned. For the rest of the hike in to the campsite, my mind was free and open to ponder deeply my presence in this sacred place.
About a mile from the campsite the trail crossed Abrams Creek once more, just downstream from the falls. Abrams Creek is named for the Chilhowee Cherokee who lived in the area. His name was Chief Oskuah but he changed it to Abram. The creek and indeed this particular ford is sacred to me for reasons that are better told in another story. Again, I had to don my creek sandals and walk through the cold water. Soon after, I came down to the place that would host my rest for the next few hours. I came prepared to practice some new rituals to honor the place and the moment.
Once I was still and the time for contemplation had arrived, my mind was full of the experiences of the morning; the euphoria and the despondency and the return. All of my senses were still full of the morning’s sounds, sights, smells. The coldness of the water on my feet and its taste. It seems in all of this movement, I had a full experience on which to ponder meaning and sequence it all into the context of time and space. In reporting back to my guide and my study group, I said that I don’t think the exercise would have been as meaningful if I had merely sat down in a quiet spot near my home. For me, it seems the movement through space is a necessary preparation to the time of contemplation.
I’m better when I move.
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