This is how I felt when I walked the path from car to lodge at the Shambhala Mountain Center. My heart could not help but smile. The quaking aspen, the grazing cattle, the Abert’s squirrel, the prayer flags, the deliciousness of doing something I had wanted for so long: these were the welcoming pulsations of arrival. I had come on retreat to unplug, meet new people, delve into the mystery of the mind and spirit, and walk the land. All this came to pass.
Two of the people I met are here with me now, sharing their words on this blog. I didn’t foresee friendship as an outcome of my time at SMC. But here we are. Three voices, three bodies, three individuals on separate paths but united by a need to connect, create and offer. Thank you Fred and Chantill for joining me on this undefined journey. May we find grace in this practice, inspiration in each other, and the space and discipline we seek to commit ourselves to craft.
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It is winter in Colorado. I live at the base of the foothills, where the plains discover sandstone and undulate between hogback uplifts before disappearing into ponderosa pine and river canyon. I am rooted in this place, despite many departures and homecomings. Always the land, the shape of her stone, the mystery underfoot, the layers of mountain - it’s like a dreamscape to me.
My response to the beauty has been one of strange melancholy, as if my soul knows that somewhere inside all the rock, water, tree and snow there is a secret I buried long ago, maybe in another life. Perhaps it’s an answer to a question I haven’t asked yet.
I’m a pocket gopher in winter. I reside where earth meets snow. My small furry body burrows a channel through the ice crystals. Then I tunnel into the ground, packing the truth of my days like soil into to the excavated snow cave that will reveal my path in summer. This simple, life affirming task - adapting to winter’s rhythm despite everything - is all I can do. I turn the soil, inside out, to breathe new life for others to take root and grow.
My response to the beauty has been one of strange melancholy, as if my soul knows that somewhere inside all the rock, water, tree and snow there is a secret I buried long ago, maybe in another life. Perhaps it’s an answer to a question I haven’t asked yet.
I’m a pocket gopher in winter. I reside where earth meets snow. My small furry body burrows a channel through the ice crystals. Then I tunnel into the ground, packing the truth of my days like soil into to the excavated snow cave that will reveal my path in summer. This simple, life affirming task - adapting to winter’s rhythm despite everything - is all I can do. I turn the soil, inside out, to breathe new life for others to take root and grow.
I got goosebumps. Thank you, Carol, for such a spirit-field offering. I could feel winter upon me and know the mystery in my soul.
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