sailing, swimming, hiking, and reading the paperbacks that Mom always brought along for our ‘down’ times. My Uncle Bill and Aunt Maggie were also frequent guests, along with their three daughters, my cousins. It was a place of family bonding just as if we were a normal middle class family. There was no television, and radio reception was iffy at best, so we spent hours playing Scrabble or Monopoly. The cabin had enough amenities to keep us comfortable—electricity, a phone, running water (usually) and indoor plumbing—but was isolated enough to keep us cut off from the outside world unless we actively sought it out by going over to the lodge.”
“You were a privileged kid!” Alan exclaimed. “Not many people got that kind of experience.”
“Yeah. I was privileged, though I didn’t know it at the time. Most of my attention was focused on goofing off and having fun, yet I was aware even at an early age of a sacred presence around me. Today I would call Pinecrest a thin place, a phrase used in the Celtic tradition to describe those regions where God’s presence is palpable. It’s a place that exudes mystery and divinity, and I had experiences that underscored that sense every time we went to Pinecrest.
“Along with my brothers and sister, or with a friend, we would often take hikes from our cabin around to the east end of the lake and up into the Boy Scout Valley. The trail in the valley scoots along the south bank of the river, which is dry and dusty, winding between gently sloping granite slabs. Along the north bank of the river, and visible from the trail, lies a green and lush meadow, dotted with aspen groves and teeming with birds, squirrels, and other wildlife. We were always separated from this meadow by the river, so my unrequited desire to walk those green pastures helped to magnify its mystery. I was convinced that it was the Garden of Eden and that God lived there. I have no idea how I even had heard of the Garden of Eden in my Zen/atheist home, but I could sense a sacred presence even if I couldn’t really articulate it. Finally, as a teenager, my friend Jim and I managed to cross the river and enter the mysterious meadow. I assumed, as we waded across the depleted river, that I would be disappointed and would discover nothing more than a mountain meadow. But as we climbed the bank and crossed the meadow into one of its aspen groves, I was struck hard by the thought that God really did live here! The previously imagined sacred presence became real and palpable as we quietly listened to the quaking of the aspen leaves and smelled the fecund dampness of the meadow floor. The rotting carcasses of fallen trees provided ample sustenance for the grasses and flowers of the meadow, as well as cover for beavers, squirrels and a myriad of other wildlife. The mixture of sugar pines and aspens provided safe haven for hundreds of birds, who all squawked at the human intruders as we invaded their homes. Being boys, Jim and I eventually proceeded to our goal of ascending the steep hillside that rose out of the meadow, but I left there thoroughly convinced that God is present in God’s own creation. And I have always felt blessed that one of my earliest mountaintop experiences came in a meadow, a daily reminder that God’s presence is not exceptional: we are wrapped up in it.
“Of course this experience of the sacred was not limited to unusual times and places. At Pinecrest we were literally within nature twenty-four hours a day. Swimming in the cool waters of the lake meant squishing the sand between our fingers, diving deep into the waters of the little cove in front of our cabin, and letting the fish nibble at our toes as we dangled our feet from the dock. After swimming to the rocks that jutted out from the shore on the other side of the cove, we would climb up, scraping our knees, and let the warm breeze dry our bodies as we basked in the sunshine, splayed out on the rocks like ancient Sirens. Later in the day we might strap on our boots and take a hike up the steep hillside behind the cabin, moving away from the world of humans and into the realm of trees.
“Forests have many occupants, both animal and plant, but they are clearly ruled by the trees. Up the slope behind our cabin grew huge conifers whose boughs controlled access to sunlight, and whose deep roots controlled all the moisture in their kingdom. Walking among these aristocrats you could feel life vibrating all around you. The trees moved, they had particular smells, and their gaze, usually of benign disinterest, followed you wherever you went.”
Alan burst into my reverie, “It sounds like you were becoming a Druid!”
“Well, in a way. I wasn’t conscious of it, of course, and I didn’t know anything about the Druids until I was older. But I think even then I made an important distinction. The Druids believed that the trees were God, whereas I believed that God was in the trees. In other words, the trees had their own essence which participated with God, and God with them, but the trees were not God himself.”
“Did you feel the same way about rocks and birds and grass?”
“Oh yes, and about myself too. And although there seems to be an affinity between living things which heightens the sense of God’s presence in the forest kingdom, I think there is also an equality of that presence among all components of creation.”
“Even bats? Volcanoes?”
“Yeah, even spiders and snakes. There were plenty of those at Pinecrest, and plenty of bats too, though no active volcanoes in the vicinity.
“About a hundred yards up the hill behind our cabin ran a rudimentary trail that provided access to the main water line. I can remember standing up there surrounded by trees, listening to the wind whisper through the boughs. At my feet ferns grew betwixt the rocks where water had seeped out of the old, wooden water line, and granite boulders, half buried in the dirt, patiently hosted families of lichen. On rare occasions a snake would be warming himself on one of these rocks where the sun was able to work through the canopy, and always there would be spider webs slung across the path, where unfortunate flies met their demise. In spots you could see through the trees to the lake far below, and the little dots of people in their boats or swimming seemed like they belonged to another world.
“I would hike down this scraggly little trail, following the water line, until I came upon a rocky spot where the trees had briefly abdicated their shroud in favor of the warm sun, and I would sit there in the quiet warmth and let my mind and body go. I was having a little mountain zazen, I guess. I wasn’t really thinking about God. To paraphrase Paul, I was a child with childish thoughts, and I suppose later as a teenager I was thinking about girls! But after a while, the noisy mind fades, and you simply experience the warm breeze on your cheek and the scratchy rock on your bottom without commentary. Time passes unnoticed, and the occasional undefined sound that wafts up the hill from the lake passes over you and around you, noticed but not retained. To tell you the truth, Alan, I’ve always struggled with most indoor forms of meditation. If I’m going to sit and be with God, I’d rather do it on a rock than on a cushion or a chair.”
“Man!” Alan said. “Now that’s what I’m talking about. No priests, no cathedrals, no rules, no books! Just me and nature.” He looked pensive for a moment, then continued, “But you know, people fall off rocks, and they get bitten by snakes. How does that fit into your Druid idealism? How can you be intellectually honest if you romanticize the healing part of nature without regard to the hurting side of nature? Or in the lingo you’re adopting, can you really say that God is only in the good things, and the bad things—the rabid bats and the devastating volcanoes—come from somewhere else?”
I smiled, recognizing the familiar and ancient argument. “No, all of creation comes from God, even the bats and volcanoes and spiders. But evil itself springs only out of human intent, the product of free will. I know I’ve hit on mostly the positive and no doubt romanticized spiritual moments in the mountains, but Pinecrest was also a great teacher of the dangers of creation. Danger can produce fear in a primal way, but it can also produce great clarity. There is no explicit or implicit promise made by God that the world God has created will be free of danger or fear. We might be killed at any moment by some natural process of creation, like a meteor striking us or a rabid bat flying into the car. But God is not a puppet-master who at the beginning of time placed all actions on a master script that is simply playing out inexorably now. How boring! There
