2024-08-27 I Inquiry I Losing the Trail and Finding Your Way I Flint Sparks

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“Losing the Trail” ~Noah Charney. These Trees Tell a Story: The Art of Reading Landscapes. Yale University Press; New Haven and London: 2023. Pages 25-26. Following the trail is the easiest way to be lost. Sure, that trail might takes us to a preordained destination faster, but we’ll have no idea where we are when we get there. While we’re on the trail, we lose track of what’s around us and where we are in space—we are lost. We put our trust in the trail, ceding responsibility. We give up our awareness, our senses, our minds. Our interface with the landscape boils down to just two numbers: the total length of the trail and the distance we’ve traveled. Staring at the path a few feet in front of us, we are not fully engaged with the surrounding world. Step off that path and suddenly we have to look up. Look at the shape of the land and decide how steeply we want to climb. Look at the trees in the distance and pick a target to walk toward. Keep looking behind so that we will recognize the forest when we encounter it from the other direction on our return trip. Study the shrub layer for gaps to duck through, following the occasional animal trails worn through the denser areas. Use the network of deer paths when traversing steep slopes to gain level footing. Keep an eye out for poison ivy, rose thorns, and ticks waving their arms in hopes of catching a ride. Study the patterns of light for clearings. Monitor the changing habitats near and far: white tops of sycamores in the distance signaling a creek; chestnut oaks nearby telling us we’ve reached the drier hilltops; the banjo-like plunk of a lone green frog calling from the wetland ahead that we hope to steer around. Keep an eye on the rising sun and remember where south is as we walk. This whole time, we maintain a map of the landscape in our heads, filling in the details as we go. That is how we get to know the world and our place in it. My practice perspective on “Losing the Trail” ~ Flint Sparks Do I dare step off the narrow path of certainty and predictability? If I do, I suddenly and naturally look up — and look out at the shape of the landscape I find myself in and decide how to take the next step. I look at the ways I have imagined my life and its fantasied destinations and then I pick a target to walk toward, knowing it is an illusory horizon, so I hold it lightly. I shouldn’t forget to look behind so that I will recognize where I came from and how it influences where I am going. Surprisingly I realize, no matter where I walk, no matter what direction, I am always home. Studying the layers of my mind and my heart for spacious openings, following the occasional trailheads worn through the denser areas of experience, I use the network of paths used by others when traversing the most challenging terrain to gain some footing. I keep an eye out for painful patterns, habits that harm, and old familiar beliefs hoping to catch a ride. I study the patterns of light and dark for clarity and openings. I monitor my changing relationships both near and far: a smile inviting connection; a dark mood signaling familiar trouble; the timber of a voice that reminds me to take extra care as I meet. I’d best keep an eye on the rising sun of love and kindness and I hope to remember to take curiosity and compassion as my two walking poles. The map of the landscape I draw in my mind begins to shift and adapts to the every changing conditions as I go along. That is how I get to know the world of freedom and my place in it. This how I come to know the true wonder of the circle of the Way.