Scree

 

September 20, 2021

 Greetings from where I step,

 Scree.

 It is an old word, something Nordic, with ancient roots, when things and living and words were so close that no one knew which was first.  Or that there was any separation between what was and what it was called.

 I admit I knew the word but probably never used it.  My brother dusted it off and gave it to me, and it lingered in the periphery of my thinking for a few months, looking for a place to land.

 I’m not too proud to confess that, in spite of a well-thumbed philosophy which aspires to rich, joy filled life, it is not uncommon for me to become out of balance.  My intentions are good, but I am prone to stumbling, distracted by the myriad of things in life that conspire to chew me into something smaller.  The real irony is those distractions are absurdly small in comparison to my aspirations.

 Some months ago, I was choosing hiking shoes, getting ready for our climb up Half Dome in Yosemite.  My brother Douglas suggested I choose something that would be good gripping onto granite for some of the ascent, and also for scrambling through scree.  Just dropped it into the conversation, like that.

 I remember laughing, which I almost always do when I talk to my brother, but he probably didn’t recognize how delighted I was with the word.  Scree.

 Most days I am intentional about certain things that I know will fill me up, that will give me the strength I need to withstand the vagaries of the hours before me.  I can go for a run, I can read new things, or my favorite authors, or spend time in quiet.  I make plans to call my children, to meet friends, to write or create, to find ways to do the things that are closest to my best self.

 Ah, but God laughs. I intersect with life, which already has its own momentum, attached to other agendas, and my lofty ideas about seeking the joyous part of the day are reduced to reacting to the next crisis in front of me, or the last exasperating bit of news on the internet.  

 As I trained to get ready to go to Yosemite, I learned what most trail runners and hikers already know; you better watch your step.  It’s different from running the roads, where I can often close my eyes and let my feet lead me.  Hiking on trails, even here in Michigan, meant I needed to pay attention to every place my foot would land.

 In the dark morning hours on June 1, as we started our hike up from Yosemite Valley, I learned how imperative it was to be aware of your path.  The uneven places, the strands of creeks that crossed the muddy paths, the boulders that formed steps, the slabs of granite we used to ascend for the first miles of our climb.  And of course, there was the scree.

 The bits of loose rock that have crumbled and accumulated on the path, in the dirt and on the larger rocks, in some places just patches, in others a virtual carpet of rubble.  It is not a benign part of the climb, because the scree can cause you to slide where you think you have firm footing.  In some places that can be the difference between hiking up or falling down.  These tiny bits of rock are nearly harmless on their own, but gathered with their brotherhood, can change your day.

 And so it is with the other detritus we are faced with.  The angry drivers and sad news and the barista bent on a bad day, and the disappointments and the flawed choices, and whatever else may lay in wait for us in each day.  Tiny fragments of our life that, on their own, have little sway.  It’s only when we allow them to gather under our feet in clusters that we can slip, fall into a place we needn’t. 

 The scree.  The little things we scramble over, and lose traction to, that keep us from achieving the heights we desire.  Even as I write this, I can sense it in my path today.  Unless I do something about it.

 I learned on our climb up Half Dome you must pay attention to where you put your feet.  But if that’s all you look at, you miss the view you are climbing for.  You miss the beauty in each step.

 There were places on that adventure that I was afraid, until I learned to trust my balance, my footing, and my instincts.  It doesn’t mean the danger wasn’t there, that the scree just went away.  It meant that I put those things in their place, beneath my feet, beneath my passion for the day.

 Scree is an old word with lots of history and meaning, beyond its definition.  I know it better now, understand that it can only affect you if you let it carry you away, become more than individual fragments of rock. 

 Our place is looking up at where we want to go, and to lead others there as well.  We are made to be our best selves.  We are meant to see the rich creation around us, to look at the people we encounter, to feel those connections, not to let the tiny things beneath our feet carry us somewhere else.

  

Hope this finds you taking bold strides,

 

David