A Morning of Snow and Soul: Life Lessons from the Mountainside
It was mid-March—St. Patrick's Day to be precise—and for many places in the United States, spring had arrived with tulips and Bradford pear trees in bloom, warm days, and hints of all the green to come. It was spring in Colorado, too, although it looked quite different here than on the magazine covers bursting with color and flowers. As part of a nature therapy group that meets once each season I sat in two feet of snow, which billowed around me like a fluffy down comforter blanketing the landscape. White happens to be the color of early Spring in Colorado. And in an even further twist on the idea of spring, I had arrived at 5:30am, in the cloak of darkness with only the pale moon to light up the snow-covered mountains to the west. My group and I never imagined our spring meet-up would be in this much snow—it was a lot even by Colorado standards.
Assembling in the dark with my group, little puffs of breath encircling us as we prepared for our hike, I felt like I was off for an expedition much larger than wandering around a mountainside just 25 minutes from my home. Illuminated by our headlamps, our clouds of breath billowed as we huffed up the mountain, snow shoes crunching in the mix of ice and snow. I felt the thrill I usually get when I am traveling somewhere afar—like I was anywhere but home. We were dressed for real weather: snow pants, boots, heavy gloves, and warm hats. Our footprints, exaggerated by our snow shoes, were the first on the mountainside that morning, and it felt otherworldly in the dark, lit by just the tiny circles of light from each of our headlamps. No one was talking. We breathed heavily and focused on our steps, never knowing which would sink us two feet down to the frozen earth below the snowcap.
In this nature group experience called Emergence, we first gather in a circle with our leader's facilitation, then head out separately for an hour of solo time to roam a small circumference of the mountainside—what we call “a wander.” Each season, I head off with a different mindset to tackle the issues arising in my life at that time. Intentional wandering has offered me a different way of being in nature and receiving its gifts and wisdom. During the previous three seasons of Emergence, I felt solemn setting off alone with heavy life circumstances weighing on my heart, but not today. Today, with darkness thick around me, I sensed adventure and excitement.
Getting away from our meeting spot was a trip; each step was a giant effort though snow that almost reached my knees. I giggled and laughed at how silly I must have looked, slowly heaving with each step, trying to wander off into the woods but unable to get as far as I had hoped. I often lost my balance and put my hands on the crusty top 6 inches of snow, which somehow held its shelf-like shape and supported me just enough to steady myself for the next big stride forward.
The clouds became lavender, and mauve streaks stretched across the sky, hinting at daylight. The sun began to show timidly at first, and I watched it rise in solitude filled with a sense of spaciousness and awe by the simple occurrence of dawn. Then, I suddenly noticed I was not entirely alone; a small group of deer was also enjoying a morning frolic not far from me. I took in their nervous, dainty presence and decided to follow them for as long as I could.
They had been watching me as I had been watching them. The deer allowed me to have just 30 feet between us. I could see in great detail their enormous black eyes and the long, slender profiles of their faces. They kept their eyes on me, huge ears like satellite dishes constantly swiveling to catch movement around them. The birds had awakened with the sun, and they filled the air with not only their song, but also busyness as they flit from tree to tree above. The forest had come alive, and I witnessed it, a symphony of color, movement, and sound. My heart filled with the warmth of my own aliveness, my sense of wholeness, of being part of the forest.
As I continued to follow the deer tracks, I fell again. I tried to right myself, and while so close to the sparkly, crusty top layer of snow, I saw that along each side of the deer tracks were individual hairs shed from the herd's effort to move, even more laborious than mine as the snow went up to their stomachs. What a wonder. Tawny deer hair dotting the snow, which I could see with my own eyes. The whiteness of the ground illuminated all that would typically blend into the earth: deer droppings, a feather, and yes, the deer hair. The details thrilled me. My noticing of the details thrilled me.
As I turned to head back, I stumbled tremendously, feeling overheated but also invigorated by the effort of adventure. This is fun. Just pure, childlike, freeing fun. I reveled in how much fun I was having despite being solo in the woods, struggling through deep snow, bundled up in layers of winter gear. I turned to see my shadow which was now about 10 feet tall with the sun cresting the hill to the east. Delighted by my tall figure on the twinkling white canvas of the earth, I spontaneously stood even taller and spread my arms wide overhead, power arms raised up the heavens. My shadow grew broader and taller, and I was elated at its largess. I smiled to myself at the moment's joyful simplicity before reluctantly turning back, still smiling, still glowing.
Gathered again at the meet-up spot, I shared the childlike fun I had on my wander. I spoke about the preciousness of feeling embedded in the early morning animal activity of the mountainside and the excitement of having to clumsily work so hard just to move through the landscape. I talked about giggling and laughing out loud as the playfulness spilled out of me. My aloneness on the mountainside didn't feel lonely. It felt just the opposite. I experienced a sense of connection as I embodied being part of the natural world, which is also a part of me—we belong to each other. Then, to my surprise, a person in the group named Sarah offered a quiet and thoughtful reflection that brought instant tears to my eyes: "I saw you in your joy. I saw you with your power arms raised up. I smiled when I saw you—your joy was unfiltered."
I had felt complete in my experience, but it became even more powerful when I discovered I had been witnessed. Without Sarah’s reflection, I would have undoubtedly left the snowy mountainside with a full heart, yet, her witnessing of my joy helped it grow exponentially. When I realized an observer had seen my playful spirit, my experience became more vulnerable, raw, and profound. As I heard her account of my playfulness, it came alive again with a pang of poignancy, a re-introduction of a part of myself to myself. Though we gain a lot from solitude, there is an expansion and acceptance of self that occurs when our experiences are shared. Whether we are witnessed in our joy and awe or pain and sorrow, the result is the same: we experience a sense of belonging and being a part of something bigger than ourselves. In nature questing, I learned that the group element was as valuable as the solo immersion in the natural world. It confirmed my belief that life is meant to be lived in a balance of solitude and connection, that we need both to experience the depths of meaning and purpose that contribute to a rich and fulfilling life.
"We don't have to do all of it alone. We were never meant to." —Brené Brown