The whole world is, to me, very
much "alive" - all the little growing things, even the rocks. I can't
look at a swell bit of grass and earth, for instance, without feeling the
essential life - the things going on - within them. The same goes for a
mountain, or a bit of the ocean, or a magnificent piece of old wood.
Life. We often
think of it in terms of our own hapless egos, seeing it stretch 80 to 100 years
before dimming into some essential darkness. We diminish it by relating it to
ourselves instead of ourselves to it. We can’t help it. We’re hardwired to
think this way lest we cower in fear at the vastness that really surrounds us
and the loneliness that should imbed itself in our collective hearts.
Life. That
magical process of birth and decay that makes our little sphere so precious. We
take it for granted. We cannot conceive of anything else.
Sometimes I need
reminding of life in its broadest sense. I need to feel like I am a small part
in a much larger wheel. I need to escape from my head and exist in my skin,
nearer to the earth. Sometimes I need reminding of the process and what it
looks like without the blinkers of a poetically prone heart. It’s important to
learn how to look at both birth and decay. It makes you stronger, connects you
to what is real.
I spent this
weekend just past in the forests of Goomburra at Main Range National Park - a
pristine environment that makes up a part of the Gondwana Rainforests of Australia
World Heritage Area. It is a special place, home to amazing landscapes,
picturesque streams, cascades and waterfalls and some stunning views of the
surrounding countryside. I had never been there, most often retreating to
closer hinterlands for our weekend sojourns. But having spent this time there
I’ve no doubt I will visit again and again and again.
My camera came
with me on this trip and I carried it with me on all our walks, sometimes
begrudging its weight, but mostly grateful that I had it. The camera
helps me to see, to really look beyond the big picture and focus on the smaller
elements. There was so much of interest on these walks. Lichens, fungus,
unfurling bracken fronds, skeletal leaf remnants, twisted and knotted strangler
vines, the texture of the bark on the hoop pines, the gnarled mountains of fig
roots rising out of the damp forest floor. Life was everywhere, happening all
at once around me in every stage of its process.
All I had to do
was breathe. Put one foot in front of the other. Move through the life. Move
through it. Observe.
Breathe. Walk.
Observe.
This was the
lesson that I came to the forest to relearn. It was that simple. Just breathe,
walk and observe. The rest is all by the wayside. Important no doubt, but not
essential, and of no greater consequence than the absolute basics.
Some spend countless
hours seeking a teacher for this knowing, spend dollars, pray at altars, sit in
silent hours of contemplation. But this knowing is free and arrives without
effort. Just walk in the forest. It’s not always comfortable, not always
pretty, but it’s a fantastic teacher. The best. And you’ll come out the other
side richer for it. I always do.
