NATURAL SPIRITUALITY?? February 12-14

WHAT IS IT?

 In early January, Marguerite sends me information about a conference on Natural Spirituality in Toccoa Georgia.  For $150 we could participate in workshops, sleep in a cabin, and have meals Friday night through Sunday lunch.  I love nature and take spiritual nourishment from the woods; plus Marguerite is a good travel buddy, so “Sure, I’ll go.”

First part of the adventure is learning that Natural Spirituality is not spirituality in the woods.  Whoops!   It is a method of establishing connection with the universal divine through dream “work” as described by Joyce Hudson and Karl Jung.  I am the only South East Regional Conference participant (out of perhaps 100) who is not in a dream group.  There are three groups in Athens associated with the two Episcopal churches.  Most of the conference participants are Episcopalians, which I am not.  But people are very friendly even when I tell them I am there under false pretenses.

 Our little cabin in the woods is close to a stream.  If it weren’t so very cold, we could open a window and hear the gurgles in our room.  

The path to the dining hall and meeting rooms is lined with moss, dried grasses and American Beech trees.

The trout lilies are blooming.  My first of the year.

The dining hall looks familiar.  I think I was here before.  When I see the seaweed salad at Friday’s dinner I know I was here before.  With Nina at a Meher Baba event.  And that’s about all I remember (the neon green seaweed).   Why can’t I remember anything else?

 Friday night’s talk focuses on the interconnectedness of all things, briefly outlining the latest reports on microtubules and vibrations involved in quantum mechanics.   I might get some of this.

At breakfast a young person named Lisa joins me and Marguerite.  I remember seeing her at the UUFA recently, where she reminded me I had taken a workshop with her years earlier.  Here, over oatmeal and scrambled eggs, she remembers another breakfast.  “I sat with you in England at a B and B.   It was 2004.   You were with some other women and had just come back from Italy.”  I must have been with Eleanor cause she and I went to Florence for a week, followed by a week in the Cotswolds with my sister Judy.  Why do I have no memory of having seen someone from Athens in England?!  That’s a pretty remarkable event.   My fourth concussion must have bumped off those neurons. 

Would I be a different person if I had more memories?

Saturday morning we do two meditations, balancing “nothingness” with “somethingness.”  At lunch a table-mate states, “I wish someone would do a Jungian analysis of the current political scene.”  Unfortunately I say out loud, “And what would that do for you?”

After lunch I select from six possible workshops the one titled “Ho’oponopono: A Hawaiian Process of Forgiveness and Reconciliation.”  I very much enjoy that presentation not just because Cindy studied in the Halawa Valley on Molokai where I had just been, but because it will help me work on a troublesome personality attribute I’m trying to reduce.   

 But my butt is getting sore from all this sitting and I crave the “Hardy Hike to the Falls” which begins at 3:20.  Fifteen of us walk across a meadow and begin the climb up. 

 The first third of this woodland hike is climbing high and fast over boulders so large that a sturdy rope is needed to pull ourselves up and up.  I am panting out loud.  Loudly.  The young woman in front of me asks whether I am okay.  Am I?  I’m not sure cause my right leg is wobbling; I crave standing still for a minute but everybody else is still moving up.  I am afraid to look up to see how much further there is of continued climbing.  Jeez, we’re only halfway to the  ridge. Have I ever been this winded and wobbly?  This is embarrassing.  There is no question of going back because the path is dangerous going down.  And then there’s my pride…

At the top of this nightmare hill, I stand for two minutes, barely stopping the noisy canine panting before we’re off again.  The mostly flat terrain helps me catch up because I walk swiftly and with authority, trying to leave that other stuff behind me. 

Our fearless leader is a foot smaller than I am, perhaps ten or 15 years younger, moves much faster, and wears a sweat shirt that says Honolulu Marathon.  Yikes!  I started way too late to emulate a mountain goat.

 We continue walking toward the falls with just slight ups and downs.  But then we approach a steep boulder-ridden path where a second sturdy rope is needed to descend safely. 

  This trail must double as a Ropes Course because when we get to the swift-moving stream half of us hold unto yet another rope to cross the slippery rocks. 

The other half walk across a fallen tree limb while grasping a higher limb.  Partridgeberry, dog hobble and rhododendron line the path.  

 Not far from all that tricky stuff I see the waterfall.  It’s quite pretty in a medium-sized way.  I am looking at Cedar Creek.  We stand around taking pictures, especially those who are couples because tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.

We go back across the creek, heading upward, but very gradually.  Because we’d be defying death to go back on that dreadful boulder-ridden trail I barely survived, we return on a different ridge.   Two of the youngest people and I are apparently the hungriest because we get back on the road first.  MapMyWalk on my i-Phone says:  three miles in two hours, using 732 calories.  I am starving.

Sunday morning “my” dream group meets for 90 minutes following guidelines such as using “I” language and avoiding cross-talk.  I do not usually remember my dreams, but I do have one to share when we go around the circle.  I dreamt it three times over 20 or 30 years:  I am living in the same house for many years but suddenly find a new room.   They enjoy discussing this happy dream.

I learn the basics of Natural Spirituality:  Natural Spirituality Basics

This is what I already make a part of my life:  I take full responsibility for my uncomfortable feelings, I believe that the Universe provides experiences and ideas that help me, and that an examined life allows me to gain in wisdom. 

Most of the people I interact with this weekend are enjoyable, kind and seemingly happy people.  “Are you having a good weekend?” many ask.   But I change the subject when they ask whether I will come back next year.

MORE OF AN EMOTIONAL ADVENTURE

My camera is a Canon point-and-shoot for which I have a $30 close-up bargain-basement lens.  The only photo editing software I use comes “free” with my MacBook Pro.  No PhotoShop, no LightRoom (or is it DarkRoom?).    So I’m not a serious photographer in terms of money spent on equipment or software.  But I do take my camera just about everywhere I go.   I am looking at the world differently than I used to.  

Photo of Me at Watson Mill Bridge.  By Debbie Goswick

In this, my Year of Adventure, I am trying new things, taking risks, putting myself out there.  After an excellent photography course at the Botanical Garden by Chuck Murphy, I started attending monthly Athens Photography Guild meetings, something he suggested.  Now those folks are good!  Some of them are professional.  People pay them to take photos!   I usually sit by myself at these meetings, pretending I belong.  I sit in the darkened room staring at the elevated screen, admiring their marvelous photos.  How did they do that?  Could I do it?  Would I ever? 
 

Sign in a Bathroom Stall at the Art School

On the APG Facebook page is information about several juried art shows.  Why not enter the first one, at Athens’ Lyndon House Art Center?  That should be an adventure.  The only requirement is that the “artist” be over 18 years old.   That word is so loaded.  “Artist” or “photographer” — I would have to take myself seriously to describe myself that way.  I ace the part about being over 18.

Because I am not a professional photographer or artist and have no need to win a prize, or even be juried into a show, this is a just-for-learning experience.  

The judge for this show is director of the Yale University Art Gallery.  Yikes!  

When Len Woodel entered shows, he learned that each judge looks for different things.  One of his pieces got a major prize, but six months earlier that same piece was not even accepted into a different show. 

Last year 600 pieces were submitted to the Lyndon House competition but only 100 or so could be accepted.  With all that, plus the fact that so many people doing photography are more experienced and skilled than I am, I do not expect to be accepted.  But it costs only $25 to submit up to three photographs.  Why not do it?  I’m bound to learn something.

Photo of the Judge About to Speak at the Art School

First I go to Pixel and Ink for the printing, then to a discount store for the frames.  Now I know how much it cost me per photograph, which is what I put as the sale price.  So now there are two unlikelies:  a) having a piece accepted and b) if accepted, someone wanting to buy it.  But I bet, even grasping this, that I will be disappointed picking up my three unaccepted entries later in the month.  

One of the Photos I Submitted

The restored 1840’s Greek Revival home is a comfy place with plenty of wall space and added rooms for shows and classes.  Lots of folks scurry about, organizing those of us bringing stuff in for judging:   reviewing our forms, telling us where to go first, where to pay.  Wouldn’t you know it?  An Athens Banner-Herald reporter is standing by the front desk and asks whether he can interview me.  He actually prints what I say in Saturday’s  paper, although after the first sentence he changes my last name to the name of the judge!  (The article is below.)

When I tell him I am celebrating the gift of being alive-and-well at almost 75, one of the volunteers says she is a couple of years younger and is also thrilled to be alive because she was in a terrible accident.  Doctors said she would never walk again but here she is, standing and escorting me to the next table.  We have big smiles for each other.

I may be one of the few who is light-hearted and smiley.  My first experience with this sort of thing is definitely an adventure.   In the main gallery I whip out my camera and take photos like a gawking tourist.  Then I dance up the curving marble steps to the far room on the second floor.  A volunteer tell me to stack my pictures against the wall.   “Gosh, I hope I’ve used enough tape to stick my identification slips to the frame backs.”  (When the judge reviews all these gazillion pieces, he has no idea who has done them.)

Another Photo I Submitted

There is so little space left along the walls and this is only one room!  [This year’s entry total is 938.] The poor judge has to look carefully at all these.  I take one last look at it all, then walk slowly down the graceful steps with my empty garbage bag.

So that’s it?  Why do I feel a bit tenuous, off balance?  Because I see myself differently, as someone with a creative streak who is willing to be judged.  I don’t normally like being judged and here I am, asking for it.  But wait, I, as a being, am not being judged, right?  It is my work that is being judged.  Good grief, this is heavy cause I obviously equate my work with my essence.  

I see two friends on the first floor, which helps me feel more like myself.   I’ll tackle the heavy stuff like Who Am I? some other day when I am sitting alone by an ocean.   Now it’s time to go home and read up on requirements and procedures for the next show.   I’ll try some other venues with different photos…   

Here's part of the newspaper article, where the reporter confused my last name with that of the judge:

 "Hundreds of works submitted for Lyndon House Arts Center's annual juried exhibition"

By Jim Thompson updated Friday, January 29, 2016      

"Submissions to the 41st annual juried visual arts exhibition at Athens-Clarke County’s Lyndon House Arts Center were on a pace to break records Friday, with more than 200 artists having brought in many hundreds of works by noon, four hours before the two-day submission period closed."

"Throughout the center’s galleries Friday, Lyndon House staff and volunteers helped artists fill out the required paperwork and stack their works against walls and in other spaces throughout the building."  ...

 "During the rest of his time in town, Reynolds will be at the Lyndon House, looking through the hundreds of submissions — from sculpture to photographs — to select the works that will be displayed at the exhibition, scheduled for March 24 through May 7."
 
... "Lyndon House Arts Center’s juried exhibition is noteworthy because it is one of the few exhibitions for which the juror actually comes to the exhibit space, rather than simply reviewing digital images of the works sent to their computers."

"Among the works that Reynolds will review are three photographs taken by 74-year-old Rosemary Woodel, who was making her first submission to any artistic event on Friday."

“I’m a newbie in every way possible,” Reynolds said as she stopped among the tables spread around the arts center to accept submissions.

"Reynolds, who turns 75 on June 1, is doing a lot of things this year that are outside of her comfort zone, she said, as a means of “celebrating the gift of being three-quarters of a century old.”

"Reynolds said she only recently took up photography “in a serious way,” and finds herself spending a lot of time in the woods taking photographs. The three photographs she submitted for consideration are “more artistic, and less scientific” than her usual work, she said."

 Isn't that hysterical?

HIKING: To Hike Inn

HIKE INN:  10 MILES IN TWO DAYS (January 27-28)

A week after returning from Hawaii I’m packing to hike in -- to the Len Foote Hike Inn.  Our Nature Rambler group has been invited to a discounted over-night up in the North Georgia mountains.  In addition to hiking in the winter woods, we’ll have a talk about forests after dinner and then a guided hike the next morning.

Am I up to this?  Doesn’t matter since I want to go.

It might rain so I need to pack and dress for that.  I put all the possible clothes on the spare bed and then gaze at it for about 30 minutes, thinking of possibilities.  I definitely cannot err on the side of bringing too much because I have to carry this stuff.  Plus lunch and water for Wednesday and Thursday. 

H and I have decided to carpool and share a room.  By the time I get to her house at 8:00 AM, I realize I’ve forgotten something:  my mittens.  But I brought the hand-warmers that would go inside the mittens.  My Viking genes will keep me warm, I hope, and I’ve got my Maine hat and Norwegian jacket.  H feels no more sure of her choice of clothes than I am.  She’s afraid she’ll be too hot while I worry about feeling too cold.

 I’m the navigator while H drives.  I’ve got google directions and an iPhone.  We get to Amicalola State Park Visitor Center 45 minutes ahead of time.  Nice, warm toilets.  We drive up the hill to the Hike Inn parking lot, which has a cold toilet. 

After standing around for 30 minutes waiting for some others to arrive, I put foot warmers in my hiking boots.  Our friend, J, has been hiking in once a month for years and years. "I know every rock and root." She gives us an orientation at the foot of the trail and then takes off with her hiking poles at 50 mi/hr.  

 I ask, “When is dinner?”  Folks laugh.  Not that I’m hungry…  I am trying to figure out whether we have to go at warp speed.  Dinner is at 6 PM so we have seven hours to get there.  Sounds easy.

After the first mile I start thinking about lunch.  Not that I’m hungry…  But the more I eat, the lighter my pack will weigh.  There is no rain but we see occasional snow puddles.

Was there a time when I used to sing when I went hiking?  “I love to go a-wandering, Along the mountain track.  And as I go, I love to sing…”  I just hum it to myself so I do not waste a single breath.  Up and up and down and up and up and down.  I swear there are twice as many “ups” as there are "downs." 

My pack is getting heavier even though I have eaten half the heavy carrot sticks.

After 2 1/2 miles, several of us who are walking together stop at some benches and eat for about 20 minutes or more.  I whip out an Advil for prophylactic reasons. 

By the fourth mile I do not want to talk.  We pause to look at the gorgeous scenery below us.  Bob happens along and identifies some beautiful mosses which we study carefully as we breathe.  A fellow hiker says that H and I have an excellent ability to find horizontal surfaces to sit on.  We pass five streams, crossing over on bridges or substantial rocks.  The water looks clear and cold.  I wish my backpack fit better; my shoulders hurt.  Where is the inn?

And then we see the blue-gray building up the next hill.  “Thank God this is not a six-mile hike,” I pant.  

We sign in and get the key, which we never use, to a warm, cosy (as in short and narrow) room with bunk beds.  I pick the top bunk cause H was kind enough to drive.  To get to the composting toilets we walk down the outside hallways toward the reception area.  Walk through and out that room, then exit down some outside steps and into the washroom building.  The toilets are warm, comfy and breezy from a non-smelly lower area -- just far away from our room.   Immediately I decide to have no more liquids for the rest of the day.  

First Things First:  make the bed.  From the bag they gave me, I extract a pale yellow sheet and attempt to spread it while standing on the floor.  It is the wrong sheet anyway,   so I take out the fitted sheet and climb up on the top bunk.  Fortunately H is not witnessing these gymnastics.   I say a prayer of thanks for the builder who put the ceiling high enough so I do not hit my head (a habit of mine) while fitting both sheets around the firm blue mattress — while I am sitting on it.  

 I take what I want to wear after showering, leaving the rest of my clothes in the room.  When I am undressed in the shower area, I realize that I should have brought the towels they gave me.  I just don’t have the stamina and strength of character to get dressed and walk all the way back to our room for the bath towels.  I use the bathmat to dry off.  I feel guilty — for about 30 minutes.

At 5 PM we learn about Len Foote, how the Inn came to be, and all the forward-thinking and energy-saving aspects to this building.  As we walk to a ridge out back, we see pink sunset colors reflected onto the eastern sky.   

 The Inn strives for no food waste so our meal is served family-style; we are to eat whatever we put on our plates.  Not a problem for any of us because dinner is great.    Later we hear an excellent talk on forests by Jess, the ecologist for Forest Watch. 

At the end of the program our Rambler friend, J,  sings a mountain lullaby.  I feel alert enough to read in bed while H sits in the Sunrise Room with some others.  I fall asleep about 9:45 with my jacket and pants at the foot of the bed in case I need to walk outside in the middle of the night.  I don’t.

About 7:15 AM

My alarm rings at 7:00 AM but breakfast is not until 8:00.  Stiff legs get me down the bunk bed ladder.  I hold onto the rail going down the steps to the wash room.  There is a subtle but beautiful sunrise on the deck outside the sunrise room.  Hot mugs of good coffee warm our hands. The smell of bacon promises that breakfast is near.  

I inquire about the morning’s interpretative hike.  Will Jess be taking us on another trail or just talking to us as we head back on the trail we came in on?  This matters very much to me.  I just don’t know whether I can walk more than five miles.  How do people do the Thru trail (the whole Appalachian Trail from Georgia to Maine) carrying sleeping bags etc?  I’ve heard about valiant women in their 80’s (that can’t be right, can it?) who have done it.  I hate that I’m a wimp but there you are.   

Breakfast includes scrambled eggs, grits, peachy spoon bread and bacon.  More coffee and juice.  I am relieved to hear that Jess will walk down with us so no extra steps will be necessary.  We leave about 9:45 AM. 

Photo by Staff Member, Corinne Peace

It is a beautiful day.  When we are on top of a ridge, it is windy; otherwise,  mellow.  Those who have a good memory can soon identify the most common trees.  The trail is easy to follow because it is broad and well marked but it is not smooth.  H and I want to be sure not to trip on any of the roots or rocks so we walk carefully, looking down mostly.  

 About halfway down we separate from the folks whose rhythm is to stand and listen for 20 minutes, then hike quickly to the next interesting spot.  H and I proceed like slow-but-sure turtles.

We see some unusual fungi which could be some form of stinkhorn.  Hmm, let’s look closely at those and take some photos.  

Pant…pant…  

 Oh, look at that nice piece of granite.    

And that beautiful fungi on the stump.











Stopping now and then is so nice.

And then some lovely  mosses.  We breathe normally after we have admired them.


 

After about four miles, H notices some gorgeous rocks full of mica sparkling in the afternoon sun.  Goody!  Another reason to stop and breathe and appreciate nature.

Curiously we end up at the parking lot at the same time as the faster hikers. 

How marvelous to sit in the car on the way to the warm toilets in the visitors' center.   Five minutes later I get out of the car as if I’d been in a wreck.  I walk like a duck on ankles that don’t want to bend.  A Snickers bar and an Advil are just what I need!  

But we did it!  This is a first for us both:  walking 10 mountain miles in two days.  Congratulations to us!