Slowing Time

 

June 7, 2021

 

Greetings from the fullness,

 Each step became a journey of its own.

 Last Tuesday I celebrated my birthday, and all our birthdays, by climbing Half Dome, a rigorous ascent from the floor of Yosemite to the granite knot that towers above the tree line.  In the twelve hours we spent making our way up, and then down, I became reminded of one of the more important lessons of living.

 A week later I can still feel the fullness of the day.  Not only in my sore muscles, but in the new places that have been sparked in my mind. 

 A few years ago, I read a book by Jedidiah Jenkins, and watched a small documentary about his travels on bike from Oregon to South America.  The adventure was interesting, but the lesson was what stayed with me.

 “Routine is the enemy of time; it makes it fly by.  When we are a kid, everything is astonishing, everything is new, and so your brain is awake and turned on.” he said.  He goes on to say that as you get everything figured out and create a routine for life, the alertness goes away.  Soon the moments slip by unnoticed, and then hours and days.  Suddenly years pass.

 The cure, Jenkins says, is to create a life that demands you pay attention, be startled, afraid even.  To learn, to engage, to feel full emotions.  In this awakened state, we slow down time by crafting hours of living.  Remember those endless afternoons when you were seven years old?

 None of this is new.  I am only writing this out to remind you, and me, of the importance.  I have been thinking about the days my children were born, and those when loved ones passed, and other celebrations and challenges and adventures.  They were exhausting and demanding and thrilling and in all of that, those days were filled with such rich experiences they kept me in place.  Time stayed with me instead of racing away like a mischievous puppy.

 I woke on my birthday and stood in the dark with my brother Douglas and sipped coffee in the light of our headlamps.  We whispered our plans back and forth, giggling, already anxious to begin, but waiting for the rest of our group to wake.  I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I couldn’t wait to see it unfold.

 I am tempted to share some of the day, but I’ll admit I’m intimidated.  It was a holy time for me, and in this moment I feel unprepared and unworthy to describe it all.  And still, I am going to damn well write it anyway, because that’s why I am here.

There were moments like these: Climbing the ragged steps along the Mist Trail, the waterfalls raging in the dark next to us, our headlamps weaving in the air around us like manic fireflies. 

 Unnerved, nearly crawling up Sub Dome, feeling the open cliff pulling at me.  Trembling muscles, gasping for air, heart hammering in my ears, whispering “..give me strength…run the mile you’re in…help me to feel you here…”

 The air grew thin as we rose up into the mountain, and then we could no longer take our breath for granted.  Hundreds of strangers wishing me happy birthday along the way, or joining in our warbling song to celebrate.  And the ultimate mash up: dangling from the cables of Half Dome as my brother led a group of strangers strung down the mountain behind us in ‘Hap-py birth-day dear Dav-ud…”gasping with the effort.

 Praying for my sister on the summit, under a clear blue dome that stretched over mountains as far as we could see in any direction.  Finding the perfect place, tucked inside the mountain, to keep her stone for the next millennium.  The whirl of feathers in my chest when I looked over the edge of the cliff to the valley below.  Watching Lee’s tangerine escape; bright orange bounding across the white granite, and then disappearing into the air beyond the edge.  Then, reluctantly, easing back down the cables, and into the trails below, the sun baking us in the bright places so we would love the cool of the tall pines. 

 Lunch by the river, sitting on a log eating mangled peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  We were entertained by a single trout idling in the clear, emerald water.  I didn’t want to leave; “I love this.” I said.  The others, packs already on their backs looked at me quizzically.  “This.” I said, gesturing around us.  I meant the idyllic setting, and moments later, I meant all of life.

 The trail was rarely predictable.  Rocks and roots and uneven places, we wound through the mountains on switchbacks that were not polite about their intentions.  I had to pay attention to where I was stepping or I risked tripping and falling, which in some places could be fatal. 

 My legs were so tired that I had to will them to move, to have a conversation with them, asking them to partner with me again, just another step.  Each step became a journey of its own.  It is a different experience than simply getting up and perambulating to the mailbox and back, unaware of the miracle your body is performing.

 We stumbled into camp a dozen loaded hours from when we left and dropped our things and then, inspired by Cali, made our way back to the Merced River and waded in.  I sat in the icy water and felt the muscles go numb, my aches washed away with the dust on me.  I felt the weight of the day, a welcome weariness that comes with filling the hours with new experiences, with learning, astonishment, fear, exhilaration, wonder, and the deeply rooted passion that still brings tears to my eyes.

 We are given the chance to feel life this way in ordinary moments.  Preparing a meal, fixing a flat tire, planting flowers, making coffee.  It comes to us in perfect sunrises, ping pong conversations, interruptions, long hard laughter, overwhelming love.  It comes because we allow it, choose it.  When we fill our moments with intention, deliberately choosing awe instead of emptiness, we become companions with time.  It falls into step with us, keeps pace as we move through our life.  In time, there is the infinitesimal and the infinite, and what separates the two is what we fill the moments with.

 

Hope this finds you taking your time,

 

David

 

 

 

Copyright © 2021 David Smith