Practicing Kindness

 

Natural Transformation

“We are shaped by our thoughts; we become what we think. When the mind is pure, joy follows like a shadow that never leaves.”

Buddha

          Dropping into negativity is a constant problem for me, and I’m guessing for others right now. It’s easy, given our adversarial political climate of the moment, to go straight to everything that’s wrong with society and with humanity in general. No wonder we try to find ways of shutting out the onslaught of critical information coming in and going out. I can get caught up in it and get down and dirty with the best of them.

          But I want to tell you a story about transformation that happened to me yesterday. I went with friends to the Dismals Canyon in northern Alabama. I’d been there many times in the past, but it had been a decade or more since my last trip. Yesterday was a gorgeous fall day, with temperatures in the seventies and clear, blue skies. We had chosen to go on a Monday thinking there wouldn’t be many people, but it happened to be Indigenous Peoples day, so schools were out. The Dismals Canyon is a landmark of Native American heritage, so lots of other people had the same idea. And, as one might imagine, with nature, there are no constants, so things had changed quite a bit since my last visit.

          The Dismals is a canyon cut through sandstone that once was underwater. It has standing stones and steep cliffs dating to the Paleolithic era. It is fascinating and beautiful and not a terribly difficult hike even for people over 60. But it had changed—now the little store where we once bought tickets and chatted with the owner, who bought it from the Chippawa, and who knew the entire history of the area, was transformed into a large “general store” selling kitschy pseudo-Indian paraphernalia. There were signs saying No Picnicking, but there was a cafe where you could buy burgers and such. The counters were lined with jars of “penny candy” that now costs 25-50 cents each, and kids were whining at their parents to buy some. Right away, I started to kvetch about what “it used to be like” there.

          Once in the canyon, which by the way is named Dismals because of the tiny, embedded glowworms in the rock faces that glow at night, the once quiet and sacred spaces were enlivened by the shouts of children, and the barked orders of their parents. They were everywhere—up the rocks, in the creek, sliding down dusty paths, mad with excitement. We old folks were moving along faster than we wanted to just to stay out of the way, and I got grumpier and grumpier.

Then something magical happened—I overheard a young boy, perhaps 11 years old, telling his parents his fantasy about one of the massive boulders in the creek. He imagined it to be a “goomy-rock” that was a rock during the day but came alive at night and transformed into a great monster. His parents listened carefully, asked questions, and showed genuine interest. A few minutes later, we were trying to cross a particularly dicey stone bridge over the creek, where one had to step from one stone to the next over moving water. This same boy-child came up beside me and said, “Would you like some help?” He took my hand and assisted me across. As we walked across, I asked him about the “goomy-rock,” and he told me his story, then said, “It was just a fantasy.” I told him to never stop fantasizing and that I loved his story about the rock. A little later, this young man was back by my side guiding me through a slippery, narrow cut between rock faces.

          I had an opportunity to speak with this child’s father and told him what a sweet boy he was raising, and that I gave him and his wife credit for the child’s kindness. He said, “This was just what he needed; to get out in the woods and use his imagination.” We continued through the gorge, but my attitude toward the whole experience had changed from grumpy to positive. The kindness of one child and his good heart had turned the tide. I realized that all the children there were getting to do what I had taken for granted as a child—explore the out of doors, run free and experience nature. It’s rare today, and the boy’s father was correct—it was exactly what they needed. It was also exactly what I needed. And what a beautiful, sacred place to play.

                                                  In the Spirit,

                                                  Jane