"An archer's bow is always stretched before it releases its arrow, as the arc of a soul is always stretched before releasing its wisdom." ~ Mark Nepo
When I was seventeen I left home for the first time, I was not-quite-done high school and boarded a plane to the UK. I had three months, a skeleton plan and an adventurous nature. I was curious about many things, particularly about matters of spirituality, a fact I had perhaps kept to myself within my pragmatic (perhaps at times cynical) and right-brained family. My affinity for forest fairies and dragons had long been expressed in my creative writing projects and lengthy wanders in the woods of our property, but it was something I kept close to my chest. There was and remains a mystical sensitivity to my nature that shies away from the world.
I had saved my money that year from my part time job at Cultures where I served salads, bantered and learned Spanish words from the ebullient and hilarious Mexican busboy and developed a taste for drip coffee (it was 1987, there was no other kind). I was a voracious reader as a teenager - entranced by Tolkein, but also Richard Bach (Illusions), Tom Robbins (Jitterbug Perfume) and any stories, fact or fiction, that married wild nature with the magical and esoteric.
During that year I had read "The Secret Life of Plants" and become aware of the spiritual community of
Findhorn. Located in Northeastern Scotland Findhorn was famous for growing lush gardens in the infertile sandy soils and harsh coastal climate of the Moray Firth. Their giant crops were attributed to attuning to the guidance of nature spirits and over the years the place had developed into one of the foremost New Age centres in the world. I was set on having a visit to this amazing-sounding place and so signed up for an "Experience Week", a 7 day immersion into the Findhorn way.
I was a shy kid by nature but this was a summer of re-invention, of taking new risks and exploring solo travel. I was making my own decisions (I'm sure my parents had no clue what I was doing - which was by design but not unusual), and I felt a type of freedom that was both terrifying and electrifying. By the time I got off the train in the small village of Forres I had missed the shuttle to the retreat centre and so made my way by foot in the oncoming darkness. I felt courageous, self-determined and clear as I wandered onto the property. I also had no idea what the week was going to be like, but was envisioning days of communing with trees and Scottish sprites, and long walks on the blustery coast.
When I reached the centre and checked in I met a few of my Experience week counterparts I quickly became aware that I was most definitely the youngest person there. By the first morning, sitting around a circle listening to the teary introductions of a group - most in the throes of mid-life angst, it was dawning on me that I may have signed up for something quite different from what I expected. The highlight of that first day was a too-short tour of the gardens and community that had been built up around it, but most of it was spent sitting on a cushion in a circle. I felt a mix of itchy feet, guilt, and insecurity about having nothing to cry about in front of the group. I was also irritated, edgy and frustrated that we seemed to be spending all our time staring into a circle of pained humanity instead of revelling in the wonders around us. My sense of expansiveness, freedom, and adventure was dissipating in the face of what seemed to be a midlife encounter group.
As a seventeen year old I had the sense that I did not belong. I felt the simple burden of my youth, my emotional wounds seemed so uncomplicated in comparison to the others there; the circumstances of my adolescence had not been easy and as a result I did not get along with my family and had essentially run away from home. I had experienced a deep and unrequited love at the age of 15, and had not yet been kissed by a boy were very real but simple pains to me. All these things seemed to pale in comparison to the dense and murky patterns of adulthood, and I had no desire to unpack them there. I was so much more concerned with magic, freedom, and the mystical optimism I had nurtured since I was very small.
I awoke on day three with a song running through my head. 'Should I Stay or Should I Go' by The Clash continued to ricochet through my mind in a discordant counterpoint to the pan pipes being played as I entered the group that morning. I had spent part of the night ruminating about whether to leave, feeling a little embarrassed about the idea of taking off but also feeling like I wanted out. It was a field trip day, and we were heading off site to a river* to do some exploring. We were to be set loose in the forest for a few hours to connect with whatever we might find there. I'm sure it was meant to be contemplative and meditative, but I was more interested in running and exploring. As soon as we were off the bus I disappeared down the trail as fast as I could to find the river. The woodland was stunning - almost purely composed of ancient Beech trees, their elephant-leg trunks reaching into the mossy dampness of the Scottish earth. I immediately felt at ease, happily loosened from the sad and existential clutches of middle age. I also had the sense that I would find the answer to my dilemma there in that forest.
Descending into the coolness of the river valley, I soon found myself standing on the edge of the dark rushing waters of a tannin-stained creek. it's edges were lined with river-sculpted granite - the perfect type for scrambling. The river had spent it's life cutting a sinewy chasm through the stone, churning and gurgling, disappearing and reappearing around sieves and undercuts. I set out to lose myself with the river, following it's edges, looking for and finding (as I still do) the most energetic piece of water. A gap between two rocky outcrops where the water was being squeezed into a narrower channel before plummeting several feet in a churning maw. The river was the colour of coffee, the whitewater a tawny yellow.
I looked for a place to cross - something just narrow enough to jump across without falling in - and this spot was the closest to that I'd seen yet. For me it has always been the other side of the river, not fence that calls and my search has not been for greener grass. We cross water for all sorts of reasons. That day I was looking for clarity, an understanding of what the 'right' decision would be for me. I was looking for my own wisdom to make an appearance within the noisy halls of my mind -riddled as it was with judgments and fear - the fear of missing out, of being seen as a quitter or worse yet seeing myself that way. Mostly I was petrified of the possibility that I might get it wrong; of regret.
I stood facing the opposite side, trying to gage the span of the gap and whether I was nimble or strong enough to make it across. It was wide enough to cause uncertainty but it was the height difference that was the real complication - the water-polished rock of the opposite bank stood a foot or more higher than my side of the river. I stood there for quite some time, guessing and second guessing the physics of my body while the water rushed by below, cold and oblivious. Finally I just did it. Planting my feet squarely on the rocks I fell forward, hands and arms extended to catch the smooth lip of the far bank. Barely.
I found myself extended, my body stretched across the deep channel of whitewater, close to horizontal. Suddenly and too late I realized that I had misjudged. I bowed my head and stared down at the river passing beneath me, felt the vibration of the rapids through the warm rock beneath my hands. I was living the question. My body wanted movement, propulsion it did not have. A leap of faith was needed. But there was not a scrap of flexion available in my legs to initiate a spring forward, though I played and replayed the possibility for what seemed like a long while, paralyzed. To allow my feet to lift off in the hopes that my hands would grapple their way to safety on the smoothed edges of river rock would almost certainly end in a swim through an inhospitable watercourse. I was not schooled in the art and science of rivers back then, but it was the kind of rapid that would clearly cause injury or entrapment. At the same time pushing off to go backwards seemed equally uncertain, and in that moment I had wanted to cross more than I wanted to go back. I tested the possibilities, alternately flexing my knees and elbows and pushing off slightly to figure out which way might actually keep me dry. Either move was going to be about commitment.
This was not the last time I was to be stretched between river banks, but it was the first and most formative. In those few eternal moments staring down at the rushing water, my seventeen year old self found an answer. I pushed off hard, throwing myself into reverse with all the force I could muster. I think there was a bruise on my butt for a week or so after that from my stumble backwards onto the rocky ground. But I was dry and intact, and as I walked back up the trail I knew what to do.
The next morning I was up early. I left a note for the group, had an uncomfortable talk with the group facilitator, shouldered my pack and walked down the road to the village. Perhaps it was the right decision - in truth I'll never know what would have unfolded had I stayed. What I do know is that I had never felt so empowered, so aware of my own wisdom or the felt sense - the quiet clicking into place of all the things in my universe. I surged with energy.
It is ok sometimes to get suspended, stretched between possibilities. Because in time, at the
right time, if we listen in closely the body will tell us when it's time and in what direction to take whatever leap is necessary. Then our only job is to trust our move, and know that external results are not the only or best measure of the quality and heart of our committed action.
* In my best Google images research, I believe we were at Randolf's Leap on the River Findhorn. Perhaps it was this very spot.
I stop and face it. The roots of an old cedar spread like latticework across the slope on the trail ahead of me. Mid-conversation I am frozen. This is wonderment. My walking companion continues on without me, but for some reason I am struck silent and still. These roots laid bare, exposed by erosion, but still holding the thin rocky soil of the forest in place. Oblivious, hundreds of human feet travel up and down this hillside day after day, vibram soles and flip flops alike doing their compacting work. The soil between each twisting root branch is beaten down and stripped until it is clear it is only this ancient tree that is holding it all together. Gripping the earth like a fist grasps a ball. An Entish topography preventing the hillside from collapsing in a tumble of rock and dirt the next time it rains.
