Muddy Valleys & Snowcapped Mountains
If you can't manage the hike, just imagine us there.
Since giving up nearly all of my social media accounts, I spend a certain portion of my mornings contemplating the here and now and writing in a journal — which inevitably includes observation of the weather. This morning I watched as the rain turned to snow and then reflected as the snowflakes grew fatter, thicker, and heavier, quickly accumulating on cold tree branches and shed roofs, though the ground is far too wet for much blanketing there.
The outdoor temperature hovers just above freezing in the valley, but on the tops of the hills and ridgelines, a white line forms to show me exactly where elevation changes from not-quite-freezing to already frozen. I briefly consider what the roads might be like out and about, knowing these temperature shifts and wet snow make for hazardous driving conditions.
I briefly consider it and can picture shiny black asphalt with patches of packed snow where it passes over cold culverts and rises above that freezing line. But then I come back to the here and now where, as a remote worker, I rarely leave the farm. I can simply enjoy the flurry of beauty, knowing that as long as I have electricity and the internet, I don’t have to go anywhere - and I am grateful for that.
(Yes, Frank is out and about in this weather, but knowing my husband, he’s more excited about the challenge than intimidated — and he just got new tires.)
Within 30 minutes, I know folks who live on top of these hills have yards now blanketed with snow while here in the valley, we have slop and mud. But, as long as I lift my gaze to focus above that elevation line, the world is a winter wonderland.
I think about what a challenge it has been this year to keep my chin up, lift my head, and rise above. To focus on the wonder in this world and not wallow in the mud. Even now, after all the political battles, worry, anger, frustration, disappointment, and inner work, I am still feeling rather muddy, still caked and dusted with the residue of nastiness encountered without and within.
Today, if I want to walk the dogs in snow, and become immersed in the recently fallen purity of a white environment, I would need to hike halfway up a mountain. The dogs would need to be prepped, I would have to wrap myself in layers, cover my ears, and my hands, and wade through mud to get there. To experience that peace, that quiet, the full brunt of that beauty, it would take more effort and work than I am willing to exert.
And there we have it.
The work it takes to get out of the mud of human nature and into peaceful beauty requires time, energy, struggle, and a deep desire to experience it.
And even then, it is brief, and passing, and will soon enough melt away.
What I plan to do when I walk the dogs later is sludge along our normal soggy way in this monochromatic valley — but to take a moment to sit down and lift my eyes to the white caps of the hills that surround me, knowing that I could be there but am not.
I want to reflect on the fact that it is no one’s fault that the blanket didn’t cover the valley the same way, knowing that I do not live in an environment more prone to such beauty, and knowing that the only one keeping me from hiking up that mountain to experience it is me.
I’ll focus on that white world above knowing all this, and then will close my eyes and imagine myself within it, pulling from my memories of being there before. The hush that falls over a forest after a fresh-fallen snow, the way wet snow slips off wet branches and falls with a quiet poof marking the smoothness below.
The way footsteps in snow crunch differently than on a floor bed of dry leaves, differently than the squishing of them across a soggy valley.
Studies have shown that the “human nervous system cannot tell the difference between real and imagined experiences… because when you imagine an event or experience, the neurons in your brain fire in the same pattern as they would if you were actually experiencing it.”
(Of course, though the basic neural patterns are similar, the brain does have systems in place to help distinguish external sensory input from internal thoughts and memories - at different levels of efficacy for each individual.)
So, in many ways, if I imagine being in a pure and peaceful place, my nervous system neurons will, at some level, experience being there.
On the surface level, my imagination can transport me from a muddy valley to white-capped mountain ridges. On the metaphorical level, imagination can also change the toxic thoughts and behaviors I have as a result of simply being a human being in this day and age.
Not many of us have the motivation to work hard for fleeting moments of peace. Not many have the resources, or the energy, or the health, or time. Some never look up from the mud at their feet, and some even enjoy stirring that mud, stomping, splashing, and wallowing in it.
But we can imagine, we can focus, and we can control our thoughts for inner improvement.
Which, I have hopes, eventually leads to outer improvement.
Winter is a season for contemplation, reflection, and what I call “percolation.” If you are doing inner work, you eventually come to deal with things that have been bubbling or festering for a while. Metaphorically, it is a murky, muddy space. But how blessed am I to have a connection to the environment around me? How blessed am I to have the time, and the quiet to listen to the rain, observe the snow, and be still?
I have to inject here that stepping away from social media scrolling contributed to this quiet time I have developed in its absence. And, I understand that the opportunity for meandering walks with my dogs comes from the time I have saved by deleting a 30-minute average commute back and forth to a workplace.
But the experience has helped me fully comprehend that it is almost impossible to be a good human being without taking time to rest, reflect, percolate, and contemplate. To be a good person, you have to look up from your phone, the mud, and be still. To be a good person you have to have a relationship with the comfort, grounding, and spiritual peace that nature offers.
I urge you to look up on occasion. Lift your eyes above the elevation of our current muddy culture. Remind yourself that we can experience moments where we, along with others, don’t operate from our insecurities and our pain. We may not have the resources to get there in person today, but simply imagining the concept can help us feel it and believe it from where we are, in the here and now.
We are entering the season of peace. Lift your head, and seek it out. If you don’t have the resources to immerse yourself in it, gift yourself 20 minutes of quiet time in an outdoor natural environment. Breathe, be still, and contemplate, and you will find some peace there.
…
By early afternoon, the temperature dropped below freezing and the winds blew the snow sideways as it fell from the sky. The white blanket spread from the hilltops into the valley, turning the yard and the hayfields white, and the hushful peace fell over all I could see. I will not have to hike or imagine a winter wonderland, I can simply step out into it — proof that with just a few minor adjustments to our atmosphere, peace can blanket all.
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