of ascending the steep hillside that rose out of the meadow, but I left there thoroughly convinced that God is present in God’s own creation. And I have always felt blessed that one of my earliest mountaintop experiences came in a meadow, a daily reminder that God’s presence is not exceptional: we are wrapped up in it.
“Of course this experience of the sacred was not limited to unusual times and places. At Pinecrest we were literally within nature twenty-four hours a day. Swimming in the cool waters of the lake meant squishing the sand between our fingers, diving deep into the waters of the little cove in front of our cabin, and letting the fish nibble at our toes as we dangled our feet from the dock. After swimming to the rocks that jutted out from the shore on the other side of the cove, we would climb up, scraping our knees, and let the warm breeze dry our bodies as we basked in the sunshine, splayed out on the rocks like ancient Sirens. Later in the day we might strap on our boots and take a hike up the steep hillside behind the cabin, moving away from the world of humans and into the realm of trees.
“Forests have many occupants, both animal and plant, but they are clearly ruled by the trees. Up the slope behind our cabin grew huge conifers whose boughs controlled access to sunlight, and whose deep roots controlled all the moisture in their kingdom. Walking among these aristocrats you could feel life vibrating all around you. The trees moved, they had particular smells, and their gaze, usually of benign disinterest, followed you wherever you went.”
Alan burst into my reverie, “It sounds like you were becoming a Druid!”
“Well, in a way. I wasn’t conscious of it, of course, and I didn’t know anything about the Druids until I was older. But I think even then I made an important distinction. The Druids believed that the trees were God, whereas I believed that God was in the trees. In other words, the trees had their own essence which participated with God, and God with them, but the trees were not God himself.”
“Did you feel the same way about rocks and birds and grass?”
“Oh yes, and about myself too. And although there seems to be an affinity between living things which heightens the sense of God’s presence in the forest kingdom, I think there is also an equality of that presence among all components of creation.”
“Even bats? Volcanoes?”
“Yeah, even spiders and snakes. There were plenty of those at Pinecrest, and plenty of bats too, though no active volcanoes in the vicinity.
“About a hundred yards up the hill behind our cabin ran a rudimentary trail that provided access to the main water line. I can remember standing up there surrounded by trees, listening to the wind whisper through the boughs. At my feet ferns grew betwixt the rocks where water had seeped out of the old, wooden water line, and granite boulders, half buried in the dirt, patiently hosted families of lichen. On rare occasions a snake would be warming himself on one of these rocks where the sun was able to work through the canopy, and always there would be spider webs slung across the path, where unfortunate flies met their demise. In spots you could see through the trees to the lake far below, and the little dots of people in their boats or swimming seemed like they belonged to another world.
“I would hike down this scraggly little trail, following the water line, until I came upon a rocky spot where the trees had briefly abdicated their shroud in favor of the warm sun, and I would sit there in the quiet warmth and let my mind and body go. I was having a little mountain zazen, I guess. I wasn’t really thinking about God. To paraphrase Paul, I was a child with childish thoughts, and I suppose later as a teenager I was thinking about girls! But after a while, the noisy mind fades, and you simply experience the warm breeze on your cheek and the scratchy rock on your bottom without commentary. Time passes unnoticed, and the occasional undefined sound that wafts up the hill from the lake passes over you and around you, noticed but not retained. To tell you the truth, Alan, I’ve always struggled with most indoor forms of meditation. If I’m going to sit and be with God, I’d rather do it on a rock than on a cushion or a chair.”
“Man!” Alan said. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. No priests, no cathedrals, no rules, no books! Just me and nature.” He looked pensive for a moment, then continued, “But you know, people fall off rocks, and they get bitten by snakes. How does that fit into your Druid idealism? How can you be intellectually honest if you romanticize the healing part of nature without regard to the hurting side of nature? Or in the lingo you’re adopting, can you really say that God is only in the good things, and the bad things—the rabid bats and the devastating volcanoes—come from somewhere else?”
I smiled, recognizing the familiar and ancient argument. “No, all of creation comes from God, even the bats and volcanoes and spiders. But evil itself springs only out of human intent, the product of free will. I know I’ve hit on mostly the positive and no doubt romanticized spiritual moments in the mountains, but Pinecrest was also a great teacher of the dangers of creation. Danger can produce fear in a primal way, but it can also produce great clarity. There is no explicit or implicit promise made by God that the world God has created will be free of danger or fear. We might be killed at any moment by some natural process of creation, like a meteor striking us or a rabid bat flying into the car. But God is not a puppet-master who at the beginning of time placed all actions on a master script that is simply playing out inexorably now. How boring! There is no intent on God’s part that a rabid bat fly into our car. In the large view of creation, bats—even rabid ones—serve a purpose in the evolution of all creation towards the peaceable kingdom of God, and it is for that purpose that bats were created. There is no ‘plan’ for an individual bat to bite you at a specific point in time, but there is a purpose that that bat participates in, just as you and I do.”
Alan shook his head. “This is the clarity you found sitting on a rock in the forest?”
“Not exactly, though I do remember a moment of great clarity while sitting on another, much larger rock. You remember Little Yosemite, the giant rock edifice that towered a thousand feet above the east end of Pinecrest Lake? Well, you can get to the top of that cliff by hiking around to the back side—the north side—where there is a fairly gentle slope that leads to the top. One summer as a teenager Jim and I took the long hike around to the back side and up the slope until we finally made it to the top, where we rested by dangling our feet over the edge of the cliff. It was a fine, sunny day. To the east we could see far back into the high Sierra back country, with its mixture of solid granite and gentle forests. To the west lay the lake, with the little dots of sailboats floating gently across its blue-green waters. Below us was a sheer, thousand foot drop to the floor of the Boy Scout Valley, where we could still see the remains of shattered rock left behind when the glacier had ground through there thousands of years before. The warm breeze helped to cool us off, and after about half an hour, Jim, who sat at my left, got up and moved off to his left. I sat for a few more moments, then turned to my right, preparing to get up. That’s when I heard the unmistakable sound of an upset rattlesnake less than a foot away.”
“Ooh boy!”
“Yeah. In retrospect I realize that the cold-blooded rattler had been sunning himself just like I was and was probably too groggy to be of any real danger; but at the time I just froze. For a moment it passed through my mind that my only choices were to jump off a thousand foot cliff or get bitten by a rattlesnake. That snake and I stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, though it was probably only a few seconds, then I leaped backwards away from the cliff and right over the snake while screaming to Jim, ‘Snaaaaaaaaaake!’ We ran as fast as two terrified thirteen year olds could back down the hill.”
Alan was unsuccessful at suppressing his laughter. “I wish I could have seen that!”
“It is a funny story now, but I’m telling you, there can be great clarity in moments like that. Of course, fear can just freeze your mind and shut you down, but sometimes it can make you hyper-aware, super-connected to everything around you. You’re no longer external and analytical; you’re right there in it, a part of it.5 So when you do survive a scary, life-threatening situation, it connects you more thoroughly to creation, and by extension, God. So that incident didn’t endear me to snakes, but I subsequently