Traces, snow wings, and othering
Musings, questions and revolutions from my treehouse among the maples.
Silence comes from all directions. Pallid sky. Paper birches. Swollen, charcoal cherries hanging on a fruit tree. Air, squeezes warmth from my cheeks, the -21 temperature encasing me as a trout on ice at the grocery store.
Snow emits layers of grunts, packed down by our snowshoes as we trudge up the clearing, eyes peeled for animal tracks. Burnt orange elm leaves, curl into themselves, waving, rustling “hello” in the wind.
"What's this?" We all ask in our heads and out loud as we come upon prints in the snow. "Who did it and why?"
Humans have a need to label what we see: the wing traces of a bird on snow, for example; was it hunting, resting, mating? Here in the forest I try to take in what I'm experiencing without categorizing, colonizing, othering. In the belly of the forest, mystery's uncomfortable. Yet what if what we're taught about nature and our place in it, about otherness in all its forms, is wrong?
We follow the tracks of two mice walking side by side, the line of their tails straight behind them. Then the tracks separate for a bit and rejoin before a felled tree, possibly their winter home. Why did they separate, then re-join? My mind won't quit with questions. I consider my ancestors, settlers on stolen land across the country from where I now live. Land holds memories, traces of what happened there and who came before. Here, logging, excavation, mining are all signs of humans taking from the land to survive. How can we bring things back into relation?
By the end of the trek, I can't feel my toes. A meek sun lights up the muddled path where we descend, my body sinking into the snow as blankets on a bed.
Mindful writing exercise
Gather your notebook (or a piece of paper) and a pen. Find a comfortable place on a sofa, a chair at your desk, or on a cushion on the floor. Make sure that the location is relatively quiet and free from interruption. See that your back is supported, or at ease and that you are sitting upright. You may cross your legs if you wish or sit with your feet planted firmly on the floor.
Take a few moments to sense the inflow and outflow of breath. Allow your awareness to follow the breath as it expands your lungs and abdomen and exits through your nose. With each breath begin to let go a bit more, releasing any tension or pain in your neck and shoulders, your arms, back, hips, and legs. Sense the inflow of the breath as it fills your lungs, and then sense the outflow as you slowly let go and begin to relax.
Listen to the audio recording for guidance. The sound of the bell will signal the end of the writing meditation.
Bring your awareness to the top of your head for a few moments and then to your head itself. Become aware of any tension or discomfort in this area. Is there any sensation of tightness or achiness? Travel around your head with your mind as though you're an astronaut orbiting a planet. Spend a few moments doing this and just noticing.
Bring awareness to your torso region, from your neck down to your sitz bones. Move your awareness gently around this space and sense the aliveness of it. Notice any sensations and any qualities to the sensations, such as hard/soft, smooth/rough, calm/shaking, warm/cool, still/moving, and so on. In this state, you can let go of outer distractions while witnessing your thoughts and emotions as they pass. Spend a few moments doing this, and just noticing.
Bring awareness to your legs and feet. Notice any achiness or discomfort. Sense the nuances of feeling in your legs, such as hard/soft, smooth/rough, calm/shaking, warm/cool, still/moving, and so on. In this state, you can let go of outer distractions while witnessing your thoughts and emotions as they pass. Spend a few moments doing this, and just noticing.
Open your notebook and pick up your pen to write about what you experienced. I hope you enjoyed this mindful writing exercise.
Yours in Ink & Earth,
Lissa
I am grateful to live + work on the unsurrendered traditional lands of the Algonquin people.