The
Calling WalkLike so many who enjoy living in Colorado, I love to hike in the mountains, along the streams, through dense woods, and to pristine alpine lakes, discovering the many vistas, treasures, and natural wonders of our state. Yet, most typically, in my adult life, I have hiked toward a designated location, walking with the goal of seeing something specific -- a waterfall or a particular vista.
On one wet September morning, while traveling on the West Elk Loop scenic drive in the Kebler Pass area , I experienced a vivid reawakening of the benefits of a less intentional way of walking, a way I knew as a child.
My husband and I were heading off for a week-long vacation, enjoying the Colorado mountains. We needed to be in Crested Butte by evening, but it was still early in the day, and we had no specific goal other than to enjoy a relaxed time in the hills. Since we had spent most of the morning together, inside the car and rain-beaten, we were a bit edgy -- so we were quite comfortable with the idea of each taking off in our own chosen direction to spend a bit of solo time outdoors.
I meandered down the side of the hill, being careful to walk gently on rocks or pebbles, as there was no trail and the ground was rather soft. I had no goal in mind, other than capturing yet another variation of the favorite vista before me. After a few moments of observing the vast sea of aspen and evergreen on the laps of the mountains across the valley, I was struck by the absence of agenda in this moment.
My slow, careful steps reminded me of a "calling walk" exercise that I had experienced during a workshop. The idea is that rather than deciding consciously where to walk (as we most typically do), you simply walk, quiet your mind and allow yourself to be called by the wild, by all the life-forms around you -- the rocks, the wind, the cricket -- opening yourself to listen to the guides around you.
With this agenda-less opportunity before me, I began shifting my intentions to open my heart to the "Call of the Earth," as Theodor Roszak has described it. I simply began to listen with my heart open. My eyes softened their focus, attentive to the varietal hues of this wet, terraced slope. My ears began to notice more subtle sounds, even the sounds of the moisture dropping from leaf edges to the grass below. My heart grew more sensitive, deepening in appreciation of the variety of fertile, moist life around me. My pace was slow and mindful as I carefully and respectfully placed my steps on rocks and gravel to minimize my impact on the soft, rain-soaked soil. Yet the direction of my travel was not intentioned by my desire to go any particular way -- rather, I was being called.
The call came not from a single voice, but from a sort of intuitive interaction with a vibrant community of organisms -- plants, creatures, air, moistness and stone -- surrounding me. The first bit of nature that called me was the color of the leaves of some scrub oak. Then the moisture among the grasses -- and the colors of the foliage dying, going to sleep for the fall -- all kept drawing me back to the edge of a bramble of decomposing branches and rotting leaves, still wet from an early morning rain.
Among this earthy moist thicket, I saw a small spiral shell, like the kind you find along a beach. I had first seen this type of shell on the west side of the Bellvue hog-back, north of Ft. Collins. The shells, roughly an inch in diameter and one-quarter inch wide, form a spiral like most any other shell you'd find along the shore of the ocean. I assumed they were some recent ancestors, uprooted with the uprising of this hillside, exposed from some long-ago sea bed. Preserved somehow in near-perfect condition, they appeared to be recently occupied -- like the kind of shell I would find on the beach. But I could not imagine a snail living so far from the ocean, here in Colorado! Over the years, I'd been left with questions in the back of my mind: How old were these shells? When did they live? Why were the shells in such perfect condition, and not fossilized into stone?
And now, here on Kebler, the same type of shell! I drew closer to see more detail. There were familiar subtle bandings of browns, grays and white, shimmering lightly in the rain -- and then I saw it move! There was a snail inside. This was not an ancient home, but a land-dwelling snail! I was filled with gratitude toward the little creature.
Time seemed to melt away. What in actuality was about 20 minutes in duration seemed like hours. The experience of the present moment was much fuller and richer than any typical experience of time.
Much of what had prepared me for this "calling walk" was my study of ecopsychology over the years. Ecopsychology is a new field that attempts to heal the gap between humanity and the earth. Ecopsychology recognizes that sanity must include sustainability and a strong and mutually-enhancing relationship with the natural world. Specifically, ecopsychology proposes the concept that at the core of our mind is the "ecological unconscious" or "ecological self" that is present in each of us at birth, but becomes muted and silent as we age, dampened by our corporate-industrial, consumerist culture. Ecopsychology contends that the suppression of this ecological unconscious is the root of madness in industrial society and that the road to sanity and sustainability is opening the access to this ecological unconscious.
Additionally, my inquiry into the emotional lives of animals (described by J. M. Masson) and consciousness of other life-forms -- mammals, birds, insects, or plants -- has led me to know that we, as a species, are not alone in our communication. We are capable of caring, loving relationships with our pets, and trusting, working relationships with draft animals, certainly. But there is also the potential for communication beyond our limited language, and even beyond our five senses, that allows us to "speak to" or "listen with" other forms of life.
It is experiences like my calling walk at Kebler Pass that bring such understandings to life, that help us know in a deeper way that we are not separate from the natural world -- we are within the diverse community of life which is part of a complex, self-organizing system, moving through our creative journey through time and space, all part of the original gift born of a fireball. We share the energy of that creative moment with all that is. The natural world is always speaking to us, calling us home. If we nurture a willing openness to our intuitive abilities, we will hear that call.
Environmental activist and Colorado native Mary Romano works with EarthLinks in Denver, Colo.