A Forest Valentine
The Buddhist teachings describe all suffering as rooted in a sense of a separate, permanent self. And which, the teachings continue, doesn’t actually exist. This delusion of separateness is one of the three toxins depicted in the bhavacakra, or “wheel of existence” (the other two are aversion and attachment). For most people, this likely makes sense. We can see how much we need and depend on other people. But what about believing in our interbeing, that is, our connection to literally everything that exists? Thich Nhat Hanh, who coined this word, writes, “Everything relies on everything else in the cosmos in order to manifest—whether a star, a cloud, a flower, a tree, or you and me” (from The Art of Living).
Recently, I have been taking hikes closer to home in places I’ve not been to in many years. As mid-February arrives, the shrub and tree people are beginning to awaken. The buds are tiny, barely discernible for some species, but they are there, providing no doubt that life is beginning again. There is a little more daylight, a little more birdsong, a little more warmth in the air.
During one hike, a light rain was falling. I love this! I turned over a few pieces of bark, hopeful to find a salamander friend even as I also knew that it was still too cold for them. Such was not the case for the Pacific chorus frogs however, who were talking throughout my hike. On the nearby lake, two trumpeter swans eased about the shoreline; in the shallows, many mallards and American coots, a few green-winged teal and at least one Northern pintail all fed and bobbed upside down.
Why do I go to the forest? When my mind can be such a cacophony and my thoughts anywhere but on the trail where I step? Yet, there is no better place to strive for 1) being present, and 2) seeing connection. There are the Pacific wrens, insistently chipping on some topic beneath great bouquets of swordfern. Above, there is the friendly chorus of golden-crowned kinglets, whom I’ve heard all winter, as well as the Hutton’s vireos, who are only just now starting to be more vocal. A swift movement around the bole of a tree and then…a Douglas’s squirrel tentatively pokes her head around to size me up. A bossy “quork” from a raven above seems in contrast to the gentle calls of the frogs around me, some of whom sound a bit tired as if they’re not quite ready for spring. We all cross each others’ paths, think about this other being, or beings, we’ve encountered, and then go about our business.
It is so easy to be drawn into the illusion of separateness. It seems particularly prevalent in Western, non-indigenous culture. There is so much emphasis on individual achievement and zero sum philosophy (that is, if you get something, then I won’t get it), that it can be hard to break through the spell of this kind of thinking. Still, there is hope. The forest provides the way forward, with its many residents and interactions and opportunities for nurturing a sense of embodiment rather than distance.
As I finished this particularly hike, I found someone had created a heart made of moss next to the trail.
Perfect.
