The Continental Divide Trail: How is the big sky (part 3)

«The only Zen you find at the top of the mountains is the Zen that you bring there.» – Robert M. Piresig, Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance

The problem with the truth is that it is boring. Like any well -intentioned search engine has discovered, it does not have an external purpose for existence, and any God that does not mind planning our lives or carving our destinations in the stars. The desperate find ways to avoid this. The star graphics are collected from a dispersed cosmos, scientific attempts and do not infuse survival and reproduction with meaning. The deities, old and new, use the hands of history to write bestsellers such as the Bible and the Koran, which, if it can be convinced, express the fullness of the truth. But we all know that such books fall short, even if we fear saying it.

Look closely and begin to suspect something strange. All mystical teachings abound with broad generalities and commandments. Don’t kill. If you choose this God, see everyone else. The kingdom of heaven is within you. Does a dog have the nature of Buddha? Mu! That is, nothing. There are no answers for specific questions such as, should I have given that left turn in Albuquerque?

And so, the problem with life is that it is true, but it does not take the time to explain to itself as we live it. So how, my friends, I tell a real story about something like a walk when there are no intrusive gods or sensitive stars guide one feet? Without frames, without topics. Is there sense to get out of the entrance door? Perhaps, with luck and time, the fabric of a great tapestry can be seen in the exchange of all our lives. But the hands of the gods are secretly ours, and the flow of cosmic destiny is better observed at the eye level.

So here we are. Wandering, but not lost, walking, walking, walking. On mountains and under pine branches. Think, think, think. Talk, talk, talk. Walking, now in silence of the mouth and mind. The winds make the leaves, thunder rumbles and the rain falls, cold and chopping. The mountains look like Narcissus in Mirror Lakes and observe that their stone faces first rise and exacerbate, finally, fall into dust.

This is the unjustible history of the desert, the spaces between the small groups of humanity where most of us live our lives. We put our space costumes (our backpacks, shoes and refueling, and travel to a vacuum neither cozy nor little cozy; neither with nor meaningless. And there, in tranquility beyond our wandering minds and the serpentant mouths, which means that it is exactly what we find, although the words do not do justice.

And then, at the cusp of that world, we return. We have to eat after all. And we have to talk, to think, plan. We need some control and agency measure. So we cut the stones of the mountain faces to adapt to ourselves, and convert those same stones into sacred places; Houses for our gods. But now, after talking to the mountains, we know that these gods live as much as without them. Free now, we are at home in any imposing cathedral, any humble chapel, great temple or rural church. Because if faith is the substance of expected things, and if hope comes from the heart, isn’t ourselves in which we learn to have faith?

But who are we?

We are zen and ice cream. Simple beings. Reflections of the night sky in Mountain Lakes. The steps are slowly fading in high places. Sleeping bodies pressed in pine and whiteberry needles. The pronounced words, the words failed, the words said anyway behind the knowledge eyes.

We create the last bowl towards Big Sky, descending to the city. The villages thickened: students in light vests, then couples without gears that smell like perfume and money. A mountain cyclist urged us to open the path of Tanner. Tanner died young, he said, tragically, we assumed. His way passed through his father’s house. Another impression left by life, another meaning gripped and afflicted. Tanner’s path was clear, clean and beautiful. He would like to have seen him accelerating us, but only his ghost remained. The evidence that, even in a place as rich as the great sky, the narrative of life eludes us. Why he? Why then? I also asked these questions, and the answers do not come from pages or prophecies, but from the inducing desert.

Rarely spend a lot of time writing about the spaces between cities, and there are good reasons for that. There are no words for the best half of life. But I want you to know this; That half of life is there, waiting. Go looking for it, as you can, and if you do, not aquators, because you can’t capture, only experienced. Moment by moment. Life to life.

These are the spaces between cities. Unless, of course, something is worth talking about.

Unless they have been given express permission for use, all the names and names of trails have been changed in my articles. Any similarity with real people is a coincidence. If you enjoy my writing, do not hesitate to subscribe or buy me a coffee with the tip of the author’s button.