Typically once a year I go on a solo adventure. I’m called
by solitude. It balances the deep work I do in the counseling and workshops. My
first choice is being alone with Joyce, the best of both worlds. The two of us
have a beautiful balance of solitude, silence and the delight of relationship.
Being alone with my beloved in the wilderness adds, for me, the element of joy,
the nectar of sensuality, the conversations which become voyages of discovery
into one another’s souls, and the comfort of taking sweet care of each other,
each in our own way. But alas, Joyce is sometimes not up for the magnitude of
my adventures.
This past September, I kissed Joyce goodbye, drove 980 miles
in two days to Moab, Utah, and got shuttled with my battered old canoe and gear
to Green River State Park. I would be canoeing 120 miles and eight days down
through wilderness canyon country. The last thing the shuttle driver said before
leaving me totally alone at the put-in was, “If you get in trouble, whatever
you do, DON’T try to hike away from the river. You will die that way. It’s just
too far from civilization. Stay by the river and wait for help.”
Although joy is not a big part of these solo adventures,
complete silence and solitude has its own rewards. Attunement with nature is
one. Day by day, I feel a growing sensitivity to the natural world, the subtle
sounds of the wind, the color changes as each new geologic strata emerges
traveling down the river of time; even a mouse that came up to me one night as
I sat still by my campfire. It appeared unafraid and curious about this very
quiet human. I enter such a profound silence that I actually hear human-like
voices in the river going around certain rocks. Once, I passed by a swarm of
insects that sounded so much like human conversation that I could almost make
out certain words. But even more importantly, I develop a deeper sensitivity to
the inner world: more vivid dreams, more inner conversations with God. One day
I thanked God when a cloud covered the hot sun just when I most needed a few
minutes of delightful coolness. Then I thought, why do I only thank God for
pleasant things, so I immediately gave thanks for the life-giving warmth of the
sun too.
And yet, the utter solitude of wilderness brings up
something else for me: my fear of aging, especially my fear of becoming more
and more limited in physical activity. I had surgery last June on a badly torn
meniscus in my knee. On this river adventure, I couldn’t dance about on the
rocks like before. At one camp with a steep river bank, I was forced to go up
and down very slowly and methodically. At age 68, my strength and reflexes are
not what they used to be. In the course of my life at home, I don’t feel this
fear of aging. But in the wilderness, sometimes going a whole day without
seeing another person, this fear of aging comes to the surface. It’s humbling
for me to realize how deeply attached I am to my physical prowess, and thus the
fear of losing it. On hikes, I watched my every step much more carefully than
on a hike at home. One false step or slip and a twisted ankle or broken bone
could be an issue of survival rather than mere inconvenience. Even swimming
brings up the very real possibility of drowning, whereas swimming at home never
does. I’m a medical doctor, and I have extra things in my first aid kit, like
different antibiotics to cover a wide range of infections, and narcotics for
pain, but I’m also alone, which significantly raises the risk factor.
Sometimes Joyce and I laugh about the possibility of our
future grown-up grandchildren being paid by our children to accompany me on a
river trip. Our children will say to one of our grandchildren, “It’s your turn
to take Grandpa. We’ll pay you, but don’t ever let Grandpa know we’re paying
you. We just don’t want him to be tempted to go by himself anymore.” Then one
of my grandchildren will approach me and enthusiastically ask, “Grandpa, can I
please go with you on your next river trip?”
Neem Karoli Baba used to tell Ram Dass, “The suffering
person is closest to God.” That is, if he turns to God for help. If he doesn’t,
and remains bitter, well then, that’s a different story. St. Francis spoke
about the greatest joy, which is to be with God in the midst of suffering. It
wasn’t that he was a masochist. He didn’t look for suffering but, when it came
to him, he welcomed it with great enthusiasm, including his serious illnesses
and pain for many years.
This gives a whole new meaning to aging. For everything that
is lost, there is something gained. For every door that closes, another one
opens. I can’t bound up steep banks right now, but I can walk carefully with
more consciousness, grateful for every step. I currently can’t run around the
tennis court chasing a ball like some of the other guys, but I thoroughly enjoy
every good play I do make. One afternoon on my river adventure, as the sun
approached the horizon, I became deeply fatigued paddling mile after mile
without finding a single place to camp, so I turned to prayer, asking God and
the angels for help, rather than just depending on my own strength and
endurance. And sure enough, just before dark, I was delivered to a suitable
campsite.
Perhaps the most important lesson in this life is the
replacement of physical losses with spiritual gains. In A Mother’s Final Gift, I wrote about watching Joyce’s mother’s body
gradually shut down while watching something deeper and more essential actually
getting stronger and more alive, witnessing a birth during the process of a
death. “Louise’s physical abilities were slowly but surely leaving her, but
each seemed to be replaced by a spiritual ability. She lost bladder and bowel
control, but gained a deeper ability to receive love and care from others. She
lost her independence, but gained spiritual wisdom. She lost some short-term
memory, but her long-term memory was improving, as was her ability to live in
the moment. Toward the end of her life, every time she looked into my eyes, I
felt bathed in love. The curtain of ego had thinned to the point where it was
no longer able to block the light, just as the summer fog where we live close
to the Pacific Ocean eventually dissipates, allowing the full radiance of the
sun.”
I also want to trust that my every physical loss will be
replaced by a spiritual gain. That way, I don’t have to fear aging.
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