Chapter 4
When Fear Becomes a Teacher: Wilderness Encounters
The insects disperse on the evening air as daylight fades into remarkable tranquility. I observe the sunset with renewed perspective, experiencing its beauty as if for the first time, noting a gentle melancholy as it recedes. In the gentle dusk, I create a campfire that commands my complete attention. The flames entrance me as I observe how the wind shapes them, how each piece of wood transforms through stages of illumination, ember, and ash. When I finally shift my gaze from the fire, darkness has enveloped the surrounding forest. Without warning or apparent cause, an instinctive apprehension emerges.
Though fatigue pulls at me, I contemplate remaining by the fire. My tent, barely visible in the darkness, requires resolve to approach. After securing provisions in the vehicle to deter wildlife and checking the area for safety, I enter the shelter. Standing in the cool air, my thoughts turn contemplative-there's liberation in accepting what lies beyond our control. As some say, courage is fear transformed by faith.
My rest is intermittent, with urban dreams interrupted by an unmistakable sound outside the tent fabric. A large animal makes its presence known, its distinctive presence evident. I remain motionless, experiencing simultaneous trepidation and remarkable clarity-a profound moment of awareness. Unable to create deterrent noise, I can only exist within this moment. After the creature departs, I venture out briefly and discover a sky filled with countless stars, their radiance overwhelming. I express gratitude silently-not merely for safety, but for experiencing such complete presence of mind.
I recall observing a deer in a similar state of heightened awareness, motionless in its encounter with danger. It exemplified pure instinct-every sense fully engaged. Like that deer, I had experienced that same fundamental state of being, a moment for which I felt deep appreciation.
My gratitude extended beyond survival to encompass the gift of complete presence. Fear, when accepted rather than resisted, heightens our awareness of existence. The profound lesson was in having no choice but to be present with that fear-unable to flee, rationalize, or distract myself. The only option was to exist fully in that moment.
This insight has proven invaluable, though I reflect on years spent attempting to manage emotions. Even in my professional practice as a psychiatrist, I focused on helping patients "manage" feelings rather than understand their deeper significance. The concept of "coping" now seems inadequate-suggesting emotions are obstacles rather than essential aspects of our human experience.
In a later experience during my first winter mountain expedition, I gained additional insight about fear. Resting in complete darkness during early evening, I remain alert but calm. Natural sounds surround me-moving water, ice shifting in trees. Sleep arrives, but unusual sounds wake me-what seems like human speech emanating from the stream, forming unfamiliar yet distinctly structured sounds. Later, more disruption comes from movement in the snow and a presence near my vehicle. Though physically confined and experiencing intense awareness, I again find myself expressing gratitude-acknowledging how fear connects us to our most vital sense of being.
Chapter 5
The Song of the Wild: Learning to Listen
The day after my encounter with the bear leaves me gritty-eyed and stumbling with fatigue. I'm experiencing the afternoon valley-the slough that adrenaline leaves behind when it withdraws like a glacier. Though I lie on my blanket beneath a tree, warm and longing for sleep, the cicadas are too loud for rest. Their droning rises and falls, occasionally letting me doze briefly before startling me awake again. I'm irritated because they're interfering with my plans to nap and recover energy for evening activities.
Every irritation in life, I realize, comes from something interfering with my plans. Despite shouting at them, the cicadas pay no attention-they live in cicada world, the present moment, each getting all it can from its brief time in the sun after years underground.
What I experienced with the cicadas seemed mystical yet felt utterly ordinary-simply entering the real here-and-now moment. With mindful curiosity, I noticed the cicadas resided in just two trees near my camp, their communities singing in alternation. After my drumming joined with them, I sensed their responsive pattern-one group answering the other. This reminded me of the Hindu tradition that all Earth's sounds combine into one great resonance, the Om.
Lying in my tent, I was sound-cradled between the two cicada groups in stereo. As night deepened and cooled, their song gradually diminished until only one cicada remained in each tree. These two slowly descended their trees, crawled toward each other across the ground, met between the trees, sang briefly together, then fell silent. Though I later learned only male cicadas sing, I still don't understand their purpose in meeting-but they showed me the joining and brought me deeply into the present moment.
The cicadas gave me a postgraduate education in contemplation. Wild animals maintain open, unfocused awareness that domestic animals lack. The focused stalking of house cats seems crude compared to wild cats' contemplative attentiveness-the essence of difference between tameness and freedom, safety and danger, going through motions versus really living.
Wild animals couldn't survive without this open awareness. Domestic animals in protected environments don't need it; they're playing at wildness. All babies begin contemplative, but civilization trains children to focus on single tasks while excluding "distractions." We condition ourselves out of natural awareness, missing the fullness of life-the sky while shopping, birdsong while working, our own precious being. This handicaps us in wild situations where we panic, frantically focusing rather than sensing the thousand natural clues around us.
We need both capacities-95% openness and 5% concentration-but have reversed these proportions. The cicadas' profound teaching about joining and harmony showed me immediate awareness, their song calling "Be here now" to anyone with ears to hear.
Chapter 6
Dancing with the Seasons: Time's Sacred Rhythms
Nature knows nothing of our concepts of time or the present moment. Rather than moving through time, nature simply exists in cycles and successions-sound and silence, light and darkness, birth and death. Everything is rhythms. Everything is seasons.
A Korean Zen Master planted the mystery of seasons in me during a conference at the National Cathedral in the 1970s. This small, giggly man told the story of a student asking "What is the Buddha?" while his Master cleaned a latrine, who responded by holding up his stick saying "Shit on a stick." My ten-year-old son Paul erupted with laughter at hearing this word in church, his innocent delight spreading to everyone. Later, the Zen Master inscribed a book for me: "The tongue has no bone. Spring comes every year. Love, Me." Though puzzling at first, these words contained profound wisdom about reality.
Fifteen years later, nature revealed the Zen Master's meaning: everything is just as it is. When I observe a tree, my thoughts about resurrection or hope are mere commentary requiring separation from the tree. But beneath these thoughts, nature invites deeper seeing where all commentary stops and there's just the being of the tree and me in one complete immediate experience.
The seasons occur because of the earth's tilted axis. Without this "imperfection," each day would be identical year-round. My mind knows the earth rotates and revolves, yet my senses perceive the sun moving across the sky. I experience multiple commentaries-thoughts, senses, and feelings-that sometimes swirl together and occasionally stop altogether, leaving me simply present with everything as it is, like a baby experiencing without labels.
To truly appreciate seasons, one needs a horizon-a completeness of sky. I've found this at a reservoir and in meadows where a majestic solitary tree stands. I've watched this matriarch through seasons, sketching her winter branches before spring's green haze appears, noticing how the sunrise position shifts along the horizon. Each morning I'd adjust my position as the sun rose further north, approaching the vernal equinox. The tree, deeply rooted and ancient, simply greens because spring comes every year, while I track the sun's annual journey between solstices across the changing landscape.
At the reservoir, I slip my canoe into springtime waters before dawn. Morning mists rise from the warmer water, creating water-clouds that seem to respectfully make space as I paddle through them with the softest movements possible. The mists explore my skin as the canoe glides as if floating on emptiness. As sunrise approaches, the mists seem almost purposeful in their movements before they must return to air and water in the coming light.
Summer's sun becomes intimate, no longer a celestial object but a being of great Presence and Power moving upon me, so close it feels part of my own body. Autumn mornings bring a cool freshness that feels like new life even as leaves are dying. Though symbolically a slow death toward winter, fall's immediate presence reveals an exquisite vulnerability-a gentle disrobing into beauty down to the bones. The leaves aren't turning color so much as revealing their true sun-colors-soft reds, oranges and yellows-that were hidden by summer's chlorophyll.
Chapter 7
Nature's Shadow: Encountering Violence in the Wild
The reservoir stretches over twelve miles, a jewel of "managed naturalness" within a huge metropolitan area, providing drinking water and flood control while the surrounding watershed serves as a wildlife preserve. Here I've witnessed remarkable wildlife moments: a great horned owl flying overhead, Canada geese mating and nesting, deer swimming silently through morning mist, and a huge beaver swimming beneath my canoe.
Once while canoeing with my son Greg, we spotted something swimming-a squirrel in the middle of the reservoir. Greg extended his paddle to help the struggling creature, which immediately tried to climb aboard. Fearing what a panicked squirrel might do in our canoe, I shouted a warning. When Greg lowered his paddle, the squirrel swam directly toward us, causing us to paddle frantically away. We watched it eventually reach shore, run across the beach and up a tree, then dissolved into laughter at nearly being "killed" by an aquatic squirrel.
One hot summer afternoon in the late 1970s, I took my three boys fishing at Smith's Inlet. While walking along a path, I discovered the remains of a campfire on a flat rock and then noticed something grotesque-a recently dead box turtle with its legs splayed out and head extended. Someone had carved a hole in the turtle's shell and stuffed cigarette butts inside. Horrified, I hurried to redirect my sons away from this disturbing sight.
Years later, I returned to Smith's Inlet for fishing. One sunny Saturday, I was fishing when I felt something massive take my bait. For half an hour, I played this fish while three other fishermen gathered to watch. When I finally landed it, I saw it was an enormous carp with bronze scales the size of quarters. As I tried removing the hook with pliers, the fish jerked and I accidentally broke its jaw. Horror flooded me-the same feeling I'd had with the turtle. Though I gently released the carp, watching it swim away as if nothing happened, I understood something about addiction through my fishing habit.
The following spring, while walking back from fishing, I witnessed a swan methodically drowning a small duck. Some young men were throwing rocks, trying to save the duck, but the swan remained unfazed, relentlessly pushing the exhausted duck underwater whenever it surfaced for air. The spectators eventually dispersed in silence, but I stayed, watching this deliberate killing. The swan showed neither hostility nor mercy-just patient, steady persistence in drowning the duck.
Turtle, fish, duck, human: four episodes of violence across fifteen years in a few acres called Smith's Inlet. Nothing special about this place-countless other violences happened there I didn't witness. Smith's Inlet is simply where creatures interact, special to me only because it became a prism focusing my attention on violence I didn't want to see.
The turtle has always stuck in my mind. Two scenes kept trying to enter my consciousness: the actual memory of the defiled creature on the rock amid beer cans and cigarette butts, and my imagination of how it happened. When I faced these images, they triggered waves of other memories: Vietnam stories of fighter pilots bragging about killing elephants and water buffaloes, the keening wail of Vietnamese women crying over their dead. The turtle became a sacred altar that brought back all the violence I'd witnessed and committed myself.
I feel a reverent connection when touching the bones of animals that died in the wild-not just acknowledging life and death, but something deeper that happens in my body's cells. During wilderness retreats I guided, I encouraged people to be led rather than following agendas. After hearing participants' stories of finding deer remains, I longed to find bones myself. Minutes later, I discovered a perfectly preserved box turtle shell-the same size and shape as the mutilated one that had haunted me for fifteen years from Smith's Inlet. This shell welcomed me with its unbroken wholeness and gentle beauty. Something healed in that wordless moment.
Chapter 8
Perfect Imperfection: Finding Wholeness in the Broken
I fled to the mountains in February, escaping a month of negativity, disappointment, and self-loathing. Wearing inappropriate cowboy boots in the snow, I checked into a cheap motel the first night, drinking beer and feeling worthless, my only prayer a desperate "Help." By morning, the fresh snowfall promised something better. I four-wheeled up the mountain road, experiencing a fleeting moment of perfection-that rare sense when everything feels exactly as it should be.
But my first step from the car ended in humiliation as I slipped in my slick boots. Trudging uphill through six inches of snow, I fought both the terrain and my self-critical thoughts, attacking the mountain like a crazed warrior, as if Nature were an enemy to conquer. Eventually, no longer trying for anything specific, I found a natural walking rhythm and peacefulness returned-until children's laughter shattered my solitude.
Desperately seeking escape, I scrambled up a steep trail and discovered a tiny cave formed by boulders-another unexpected perfection. Hidden in my cave, I watched the children pass below-inner-city kids on a winter camping trip. My annoyance transformed to appreciation as their voices harmonized with the snow's crackle and birdsong.
I lit my Sterno can for warmth, but negative thoughts returned until the sun broke through, illuminating a magnificent pileated woodpecker on a completely dead tree. Looking at the forest through the woodpecker's eyes, I saw that every tree-broken, scarred, diseased-was absolutely perfect in its imperfection. In that moment, I recognized my own perfect imperfection too. The woodpecker had answered my prayer.
Genesis writers claimed God gave humans dominion over nature and the power to name all creatures, but I don't believe it. Our compulsion to name everything reveals our discomfort with the nameless, our desire for control. When faced with the unknown, we feel vulnerable; naming provides reassurance, even when meaningless.
Wild turkeys bear little resemblance to their silly domesticated cousins; the wild ones I glimpsed moved with silent grace and dignity, flowing through the brush before disappearing without a sound. Unlike turkeys, eagles have retained their dignity despite our naming them. The eagle's name has simple origins from aqua, the Latin word for water, as many eagles make their homes along watersides.
I encountered four eagles in the wild: two golden eagles at a distance, two bald eagles close up. The golden eagles' cry pierced my heart with wild, empty passion-utterly without emotion yet made of pure yearning. I desperately wanted to cry out my own truth but couldn't; the eagle's call became an intercession for me, expressing my simple aliveness in a freedom I don't possess.
Chapter 9
Becoming Wild Again: The Journey Home to Ourselves
The dream of the mountain lion remains fresh years later, continuing to teach me not about animal consciousness but about human nature. Wild creatures share one essential characteristic: they are completely, totally themselves. They don't pretend, question their identity, or doubt their worth-they simply are what they are, impeccably.
Like a stag I once observed in Rock Creek Park, they embody a dynamic "being-who-one-is-where-one-is." This natural state involves periods of complete stillness and heightened awareness-not just for detecting danger but for appreciating goodness, feeling one's body, and experiencing complete presence. When I now walk in woods, I practice this stillness: standing like a tree, noticing breath, sharpening senses.
In my mountain lion dream, when I ran and leaped without thinking, I wasn't becoming like the lion-I was being fully, wildly myself. This is the real teaching of wild creatures: by so fully being themselves, they show us how to be who we really are.
We humans have been fractured-broken from the nature of our world, from one another, and from our own nature. This constant pain feels normal: when we judge ourselves, struggle for control, long for connection, and feel separate from Nature. Yet we are part of Nature-our buildings, factories, even our conservation efforts. But as long as we see Nature as something different from ourselves, we cannot participate in healing the world.
We've become "stewards of the environment," remaining forever apart from what we care for. Before effectively healing Nature's wounds, we must allow ourselves to be healed by Nature. This healing happens through physical touch with earth, sky, and growing things, and through moments when our minds stop, senses open, and we become willing.
Every time I returned from my early mountain trips, I felt pained by losing something dear. I desperately wanted to bring the Power of the Slowing back to civilization, but despite prayers and openness, She never appeared in my daily life. I tried coping with this grief by arranging more wilderness time-nearly buying mountain property, building a lean-to in meadowlands, taking frequent canoe trips-but the powerful connection I'd experienced never returned with the same strength.
By summer 1994, even the mountain felt different, more crowded with visitors, stirring in me both happiness that others enjoyed it and a proprietary resentment. Gradually I noticed something I'd been unwilling to admit: I no longer heard the wilderness call. The Time of the Power of the Slowing had ended.
I discovered freedom from my fishing addiction after catching two massive catfish that towed my canoe around the lake. After photographing and releasing them, my compulsion vanished completely. This deliverance from addiction was part of something larger-a growing sense of Great Gratitude filling my heart. By spring 1995, I realized I felt completely happy for the first time in my life-an unqualified joy without reason or justification.
This gratitude remained steadfast even when I discovered a cancerous lump, through surgery, diagnosis of lymphoma, and six months of brutal chemotherapy. This was a new wilderness into which I was called, yet the joy persisted through putting away my canoe, closing down my lean-to, and lying in the earth out of thanksgiving for all it had taught me about being human.
Though the Power of the Slowing never returned in Her original form, Divine Presence has accompanied me through the past decade. During my first chemotherapy, I was often too sick to continue, but rather than making strategic decisions, I simply saw what happened-like a wild animal not taxing itself with "forethought of grief."
I now sense the Creator as full of exuberance, loving all things into being with cosmic delight. I understand that all creation participates in creation-created by an endlessly creative Creator, creation itself creates endlessly. I feel this creation as a kind of play: love dancing in freedom. Love is the pervading passion drawing diversity into oneness, the energy that fuels and fills everything everywhere.
What the Power of the Slowing taught me is what the Source constantly yearns for: that we know we are loved, that we are part of the endless creation of love, and that we join the joyous creativity that is Nature, Wildness, Wilderness, Everything.
