365 True Things: 310/Slow

This afternoon I went for a walk in an unfamiliar canyon, up Finger Rock Trail on the edge of Tucson. It was a cool day, around 50, with a breeze. I did not take water, though as I walked I wondered if I should have, since the air hereabouts is a lot drier than I'm used to: it positively sucks the moisture out of a body, even on a cool day. And then I stumbled on a mostly full bottle of water that someone had dropped. I do not like to just carry a bottle of water in my hand (I usually use a CamelBak, or else a rucksack with a Nalgene bottle), nor, of course, did I know whose germs were on the bottle (or, whispered my resident worrier, if it was planted and actually contained hallucinogens), but I brushed those doubts aside. "Better safe than sorry," I thought, and picked it up. 

After about a mile along a clear, if rocky, trail surrounded by saguaros, chollas, prickly pear, and mesquites—among many other plants—I encountered an area with pools and running water. And promptly lost the trail. I wandered about for a bit, then thought, "Oh well, it's pretty here. I'll just sit. In fact, maybe I'll take the opportunity to meditate."

Great idea! Except I couldn't relax into it, as I kept my ears pricked for the sound of footsteps or voices. None came (of course), but still: I wouldn't call that sit a success. I was on edge.

And so I decided to head on out, but as I left the shaded watery area, off to the left I saw . . . the trail! I was in no rush to get back, so I started following it. Up and up and up. Until I arrived at an overlook. (Nothing official. Just a rock at the top of a cliff.)

I decided to try meditating again there, on the rock. This time, it worked much better—until I was overtaken by an urge to check my clock. I called it quits at that point and turned to head back to the car.

As I walked, I kept reminding myself to turn around and look at my surroundings. I can be pretty bad at that (there's today's truth). I get into this walking (marching) mode, where I just go go go, looking only, if at anything, at the ground in front of me.

So today I tried to slow down and look. And feel the wind, and hear its gusts. I came upon a large agave and caressed its hard, patterned leaves, so firm to the touch. A little round chub of a blue-gray bird flew into a nearby mesquite and growled at me (well, his call sounded like a little growl, but he probably wasn't really growling, at me or anything else). I looked up at the layered rocks above, studded with saguaros, straight and tall, and across at the opposite side of the canyon where more saguaros stood glowing like white-hot needles in the sun. I thought, I should bring a notebook when I go hiking. Jot down words, or pairs of them, that might somehow prove evocative later on: Mesquite shade. Purple cholla. Saguaro scars. Lost trail. The language partner to my photographs, something that can capture the other senses beyond sight. The whoosh that precedes the gust of cold air by one beat, two. The pip-pip-pip of a flitting bird I never quite manage to see.

Of course I took photos. But photos never capture it all. They're static, limited, uni-sensual (visual only). To look at the photos I took today, you might think it was 100 degrees out, what with all those cactuses. But no: I bundled up in my hoodie for the scramble down the rocky path, glad to have my jacket.

On the way down, I did stop to take some photos, but more, I tried to slow down and just take in whatever my poor limited senses and mind were able to. Things that a camera can't begin to capture. The green pool below me in the canyon. The silver stitch of water flowing through the channel etched in pink granite. Rustling leaves. Quiet.

I'm not sure how successful I was (as with the meditating), but I made the effort. If I keep making the effort, maybe I'll become more aware. It's something to strive for.

In the end, I waited until I was almost back at the car to have a sip of water. It tasted good. No ill effects yet.