An unexpected witness
On nature, ritual, and healing
I've been spending a lot of time in the mountains, in the desert, these last few weeks. Three camping trips in four weeks across the end of August and September. It's felt good. It's felt really good. It's grounding. In the wild, my body softens, opens up, feels safe.
I touch into oneness there, the slow knowledge that I, too, am nature. The knowledge that my body is just earth, that the rippling of the breeze on the lake surface is also the breath that passes through my lips. The knowledge that the light that shimmers on the branches as sun peeks in and out of clouds is also my own light, the radiance that expands and retreats as my moods and internal sensations shift. That if I slow down enough, I might catch the feeling of trees growing. That I might realize I am both as beautiful and as transient as the forest, the water, the morning frost that glistened on the surfaces of logs and leaves and by the time sun climbed up to kiss it, was gone.
This month I'm sharing a little glimpse of reverent nature, ritual, and healing.
A few weeks back I was walking around the north boulder suburbs after therapy, after lover had left his house and gone to teach qi gong. The sky was full of storm clouds, hanging above the foothills like a curtain. I felt heavy. I tried to turn toward the sadness and grief, letting it be there. I cried. Also, I felt called to movement, called to let the emotions ripple through me.
I kept thinking, over and over, how alive I felt.
I looked at the clouds and realized it was all perfect, all as it should be. I thought about how I wanted to be with the land, how I'd love to have a secluded slip of earth where I could go to dance and move and feel and let it all go to ground. I longed for the forest and missed the era when I lived among the trees, tucked into the valley between mountains. I walked by single family suburban homes and kids playing in front lawns. And then suddenly, an empty lot appeared on my right, lush with tall grasses and full-bloom sunflowers. An empty lot with a little crushed dirt path leading in.
I walked into it, laid down my phone and keys and wallet and stood up to begin to move, begin to dance. Startled, I noticed a mule deer, a doe—there, not thirty feet away, sitting on the ground directly in front of me, watching. I wondered if I should continue, wondered if I might be disturbing her.
Earlier in the day I'd been reading about loss and transition, about the human need for ritual. This sense that I need to go back to Telluride, craft my own closure, has been growing in me, quiet but persistent. (I haven't been back since May of 2022, only visiting once since I uttered the words, “I want a divorce.”) I wondered if there was some way to soothe this need, even here, even now.
I began to move like my body needed to move, letting the slow sensations of grief express themselves. I began to move within this container of witnessing that the deer offered me. I kept checking to make sure she was ok with my dancing, my crying, my sometimes-sobs. She took it all in. She simply watched. I felt a profound connection to earth, to spirit. I felt held by her, by all that is around me. I felt the deep comfort, the faith that my needs will be met.
Because before the encounter with the deer, I'd been praying. I had started my walk praying to god (which is something I don't often do, raised without religion), asking for her to help me hold all of these feelings, help me be brave enough to heal.
In the surprise of my encounter, I'd forgotten that I'd prayed. I'd forgotten that I'd turned to god and asked for support. As I write this now, I'm crying, realizing that the deer, the deer who felt so utterly divine, who felt like a sign, like a gift, like peace and calm and nourishment, was the answer to my prayers.
It feels vulnerable to talk about god and prayers and faith and synchronicities. Because writing this now, the rational, evidence-minded part of me is deeply skeptical, doesn't want to admit there might be something to it, wants to cast this belief as crazy, as absurd.
But, another part of me knows what I experienced. That night I danced my grief for the deer, wailed and flailed and let it all unravel and be, without judgement. I felt utterly calm, regulated, clear, even amongst my pain. I felt held by her. I felt held by her and by earth and by god and by me. And toward the end I bent down and let it all release and pour out of me into the ground. I thanked the deer and I bowed to her.
She watched me walk away.