The Hills are alive with sense making

Anyone who knows me well, will have heard me say, that hill walking is where I make sense of things.  In the midst of nature, as a tiny dot on the landscape, things just start to make sense and drop into place.

Today, as I meandered I mused on,

Being an Alongsider, 

Working with Resistance – Fight or Befriend?

and,

does JOY taste sweeter when we’ve felt pain?

As we started our walk up Brae Fell we noticed the stream was full and fast flowing and the usual point to walk across was deep.  We walked up and down working out our options and there seemed to be two – take off socks and boots, roll up trousers and get in the water or balance on a bit of a dam that had been made to slow the water.  I weighed both up and fancied neither to be honest.  The rocks in the water where covered in moss, and the water was flowing so fast that it might knock me over. The dam was wrapped in barbed wire and required quite a delicate balancing act on a thin piece of wood.  I’ve held a fear of barbed wire most of my life.  Passed on from my  Dad. He has a barbed wire scar on his face from his childhood escapades and would warn us about it whenever we saw wire on a walk.  I chose the water in the end, and Eddie chose the dam.  Neither of us tried to persuade the other to take their option. It got me thinking about how we all have different routes and ways to travel when following or making our paths.  Sometimes together, sometimes alone, or alongside, or cheering on from the sidelines.  I was especially glad of the cheer today when my pole snapped in the water, and I wobbled with the current.  It also got me thinking about how easy it is for us to persuade people to do it ‘our’ way, or believe there is a programmed way, rather than be alongside as we each find our own way. 

Hill climbing is a good way for me to observe and work with my own resistance.  It shows up all the time.  Especially today. After using so much adrenaline crossing the stream I suddenly felt tired. And resistance appeared. It’s the voice in my head that tells me I can’t do it, I’m not fit enough / good enough, or, who complains about how difficult it is, and, starts to make excuses or work out how I might escape the current situation.  Especially on days like today. The wind and rain was hammering against my face, the cloud was low and all around us. I was hungry and there was nowhere to shelter to take a drink and a bite to eat. It was a slog and every step felt difficult.  There’s always a decision to be made  – to fight or befriend.  Underneath this resistance lies fear. Do I show fear who’s boss?  Do I feel the fear and do it anyway? Today I decided to take a closer look at fear, to notice where it was hanging out in my body and how it was feeling.  I breathed deeply into my limbs, into my fingers, into the pit of my stomach.  I imagined fear as a friend, and invited her in for a hug.  That conjured up an image of my Nan and her sloppy kisses.  I noticed my body ease and let go and suddenly the walk felt easier.  Strange.  I began to think about how so much of the work I’m involved in is about resistance.  I’m either resisting something systemic or others are resisting the work we are seeking to bring into the world.  It’s ever so exhausting working with resistance. Especially if I fight it.  I wonder how I might invite in Nans sloppy kisses more often?

Walking from Brae Fell to Great Sca Fell was a slog.  The cloud was like fog and the wind had become cold.  As we reached the top I was in half a mind to just stop there and not walk the additional couple of hundred metres to the end. 

I decided to press on and as I began to walk I noticed a minute patch of beautiful green.  It was like it was the first time I’d seen the colour green. There was an opening in the cloud which let in a glimpse of the lakes and hills behind it.  And then, as if by magic the wind blew the clouds away, revealing such beauty and a glimmering light.  It really was quite magical.  I felt joyous and thanked the cloud and the slog.  Had it not been for them, then I’m not sure the joy would have tasted so sweet. It reminded me of a poem I shared this week with a friend who’s been having a tough time.  Joy and Sorrow by Khalil Gibran.

Then a woman said, Speak to us of Joy and Sorrow.
And he answered:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the self same well from which your laughter rises was often times filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.

Who needs school when we have the hills?  The hills are alive with sense making.