Sauntering with the Buddha

When I was snowshoeing the other day, I was internally chanting the mantra AB sent me about walking, and suddenly it made sense.  Meditation can be like that:
 
Let the Buddha breathe, let the Buddha walk
I don't need to breathe, I don't need to walk
The Buddha is the breather, the Buddha is the walker
I enjoy the breathing, I enjoy the walking
There is only breathing, there is only walking
There is no breather, there is no walker.

As I got into the rhythm of wading through the snow and the chanting began to fit my rhythm, the sense filtered through to me.  

And then I started worrying about cold toes and chilling sweat and the distance I had gone and the distance I still had to go.  I can be like that.  :)

I sent that to a friend, who replied via Thoreau and his essay on sauntering. While Rebecca Solnit remains my go-to writer about walking, Thoreau's ideas really spoke to the way my brain becomes unfocused, disconnecting from the Now.  As he said, thoughts often move into the plans and anxieties that occupied me before I began the mindful activity, whether it be meditation, music, or walking.  In the past several years, my thoughts swirled around physical and emotional health:  was I doing what I needed to be doing? Now, I still think about that, but from a more existential point of view.  Or, as my dowsing friend asks her pendulum crystal, Is it for my higher good that I embark upon this activity or thought?

But, on my most recent walk, I did not think about work and productivity. It wasn't that sort of distraction that took me away from my saunter with the Buddha. I wasn't worried about the material, and I wasn't really worried about the existential. I knew that my physical body needed to be outside, pulling the crackling air into my lungs, feeling the sweat cooling as I walked through the shade, pausing in the sun to slow my laboring lungs.  There was no question about material things, other than the lack of a neck gaiter and the concerns about socks (I'm not wearing the wool ones, what was I thinking?!) and the gloves (stop taking them off for pictures, the fingers aren't warming up afterwards.) 

There were, however, questions about my choices.  Should I have turned north and walked to Landasbygda and the little store?  Was that a shorter distance?  Was it an easier trail? Should I have turned down to the lake, recrossed it on new snow, and walked back along the eastern edge?  How much further was the  plowed road?  Did it go back up and east to Landasvegen, or did it turn west towards Hwy 33 and Dokka?  Were my toes going to become frostbitten?  My torso seemed icy, was it okay?  Could I eat some snow, or was it contaminated by invisible microbes?  Because I tend to explore with minimal preparation, I had no water and I hadn't checked distances, and now I was worrying.  It's difficult to focus on the Buddha when you are worrying about stamina and the elements.

Yet, there were moments of clarity. I'd stopped the chant (it got me across the sparkling white lake), but I was still aware of being out in the sunny Norwegian landscape, slowly scissoring my legs in the snowshoe rock, part wade, part clamber, looking side to side and up into a bright blue fringed by pointy dark green.  Lumps of blue-white snow textured the clearings, more snow quilted tree branches, weighing the saplings down into arches.

Those brief bits of awareness came and went, buried in anxious thoughts. Shortly after I gained the  deep snow of a semi-plowed road on the east side of the lake, I lost the remnants of the snow-shoe trail P and I had broken last week. It swerved up into the woods along a groomed trail that went to Dokka.  We had followed it a bit, and then gone down to the lake and back across.  Today I was exploring new territory.  The going was tougher, and I could feel snow going down into my boots. A trail of straight single-lined footprints led me on down the road towards the southern end off the lake.  Was it a fox?  It would occasionally make forays into the woods  or towards the lake, but it always came back, making a little V at the intersection.   I saw little mussed-up piles of snow, like the creature had, catlike, buried its feces. Maybe a lynx?

I breathed  and sweated and worried.  After a good forty minutes, the side road went down to the lake, and so did the tiny footprints. I labored on, thinking, okay, just a few more bends and we should be at the trail head.  Maybe I should go down to the lake instead? do I want to climb the hill to Landasvegen?  Well, I'll have to at some point; and I continued slowly onward, noticing that the lake was dividing into long tendrils, and I was on the longer one.  Dammit.  But then, I saw the large clearing, an empty parking area.  It was not plowed, I was still wading, but the road from the parking area was going the right direction.   I scraped my gloved hand lightly along the roadside piles of snow, scooping up featherly untouched flakes and letting them melt on my tongue and quench my thirst.

Finally, I reached the place where plowed drive intersected trail road.  A torii gate stood on my left, leading to a lake house.  Was it private?  No knowing, but the drive curved up to my right.  I could take off my heavy snow shoes and ride that small ease in my effort up to the main road.  Once there, I leaned against the heavy metal bar that closed off the side road down to the lake and the vacation homes.  The bus to Gjovik drove past.  I breathed, and waited for something to impel me forward.  A whush-whush in my ears took my gaze into the sky, where I saw a large bird with blue-black wings lofting over the road and into the trees.  It reminded me of the time I paused on the mesa trail and watched the ravens, listening to the wing-beat in the huge silence.

It was enough.  I turned left and began the last leg.  Despite the rolling hills, my lungs were fine.  I was going to make it.  I mentally greeted landmarks, calculating time and distance.  I thought about cold well water and roasted potatoes for my late lunch.  And then, consciously, I thought,
Let the Buddha breathe, let the Buddha walk.

Feeling tentative

I've done a fair amount of tutoring and knitting and TV watching since I arrived, and it makes me feel a little guilty.   I'm not a TV watcher, and British TV is no better than American TV.  In fact, a lot of it is late 20th-century re-runs (Columbo, Quincy, The Saint), as well as reality TV.  I've watched Storage Wars and Judge Judy.  I did check out some PBS stuff like Foyles War and Midsomer Murders, but I can see all of this in the States.  So, why am I sitting around watching this dreck now instead of getting out and about?  I don't want to leave the dogs for very long, because Chip suffers separation anxiety and howls, but I could explore for a few hours, and I don't melt in a shower of rain.

Mainly, I'm feeling tentative.  As with Claremont, when I spent most of my first month in the house, I don't have any goals for my exploration, and I'm very sleepy.  Part of that is jet-lag, part the poor sleep caused by the dogs' howling and barking in the wee hours of the morning.  But mainly, I don't want to drive.  In Claremont, it was the LA freeways and the heat that daunted me.  Here in Tavistock, it's the right-hand drive and narrow lanes, along with the rain.  Weather is the excuse, but the transport is the issue.

My host took me up the moors on my first day, and that was a wonderful introduction to the area.  She stopped in various lay-bys and I walked up into the heather and rocks and breathed deeply.  She was actually a bit worried at Grimspound, because I was gone for so long, and the weather comes down quickly.  It's easy to get lost in the fog.

She also showed me the two main walks (the "Pimple" by the golf course and the viaduct path) and introduced me to fellow dog walkers.  However, the next day she took me out in "my" car, and while she was patient with me, I felt fairly incompetent.  I drive too close to the left edge of the lane, I look in the right-hand side mirror instead of the rear view mirror, I gun the engine shifting into first, and I kill it on the tiniest of hills.  She suggested I practice in the Council Offices parking lot up the hill in the evenings when it's empty.  However, it's been raining since she left, and that's been a perfect excuse to avoid the golf course walk of a morning and take the viaduct walk of an afternoon.

Tomorrow I go up to London to visit my cousin, and I'm sure I'll be active there.  But why can't I get myself motivated when I'm by myself?  And why should I?  It makes me wonder afresh what I think I'm doing with this year.  Am I just hanging with dogs?  Am I just texting friends when I should/could be spending actual time with them? Am I actually experiencing the world and meeting people or am I just sitting inside my own head?  And what is inside that head?  I love seeing the greens and greys and purples of Devon, I love eating the local cheese and bread, I love watching the goldfinches at the feeders.  But I am learning nothing.  And Pekoe, the young poodle, is leaping upon me, as if to say, "come on, get up and out and take me for a walk!"  Okay, since the sun is out and my tutor schedule has been met, I have no excuse. 

Exploring Claremont

Before I came here, I only knew that the town was nicknamed "The City of Trees and PhDs," and that David Foster Wallace lived here until he killed himself.  But I don't think anyone blames Claremont for that.  And my friend M lived here as a youth and his father owned a liquor store in Pomona, I think; at least he was in one of the nearby towns into which Claremont merges.  I noted that it was 30 miles east of LA, and up against the foothills, and my hostess said that down the street from the house was a trail up into those very foothills.  I have yet to take that trail:  the daily dog walk goes past the trail-head, but apparently it's not a good venue for Cookie and Didi, and it's been too hot to hike later in the day after the walk.

I figured I'd probably go into LA several times and that there would be wineries and parks and things to do in the area.  Well, that is true, but it took some time to get out of the house.  Halfway through the stay, I finally planned a trip to LA, to the Mark Taper Forum.  I hadn't heard of the play, Heisenberg, but many of my favorite actors have worked there, so it's been on my list.  Otherwise, I've let fear of traffic and the non-pedestrian-friendly vibes keep me solidly home-based.

My first week was spent getting the dogs and cat to love me.  Actually, that was very easy.  They are affectionate critters, and they miss their peeps, so they have snuggled with me from the very start.  After the first week or so, they stopped taking C and S's tshirts into the living room when left alone, and started toting my clothes instead. Fortunately, all they seem to do is lick them:  the fabric is still intact.

My first Friday here I checked out the downtown music scene:  there are 4 outdoor venues scattered about, and different music is featured in each.  Jazz seems to be centered in the Plaza area, which is where I located the local cinema and some really nice looking restaurants.  The other nice restaurants seem to be around College and 2nd street, near the Library (which I didn't visit until the end of my stay.) I didn't get a picture of the fountain that night, because it was surrounded and filled with people, and it's architectural and winding in nature, so it isn't easy to capture the stone and metal dragon that it seemed to be.

I used the online city calendar to locate events and places to visit, and C left a list of places to check out.  I developed a shopping routine and a schedule for walks and swimming in the pool:  the former needed to happen when it was coolest, and the latter when I felt like taking a nap or when I returned from an excursion, hot and sweaty. And, as I've said in other posts, I have enjoyed not being forced to explore the city or the area.

Now I am embarking on my last week.  I'm at the Huntington Gardens, watching people wander into the ornate and mannered structures of the Chinese Garden, listening to their inanities (but somehow it's okay if the words are tinged with an Asian accent or the people are speaking French:  those are the most common voices.) I bought a membership after the first visit, because I had not managed to make it to the Library, and at $25 a visit, it seemed to make sense.  It actually doesn't, but I will likely break even, and it's good to take some time to absorb the beauty.  It also feels like I did something besides sit under a dog.

In addition to exploring the neighborhood on my walks and joining the Vocal Forum, I have explored some of Claremont. I went to the art museum and learned about the Russian Village and heritage trees.  I attended the Butterflies and Brews event at the Santa Ana Botannic Gardens.  I wandered around Pomona College at the fireworks and attended a play at the Greek Theatre (but left early because I was sooo sleepy.)  I did some research at the Library, which looks like a bunker but is blissfully free of the smell of the unwashed which characterizes most downtown libraries.

If I lived here, I'd probably go to Pasadena for most things:  I've fallen in love with the various museums and have discovered some fabulous ice cream places.  But, Claremont is a pretty community.  The trees and architecture make for pleasant walks and drives.  There are outlets for music and the arts, especially because of the Claremont colleges.  I met up with some people attended a string quartet workshop at Scripps:  if I'd been aware in January that I was coming here, I could have done that!