Bookmark This Moment
Once in a while, there are moments in our lives we need to hold onto. In my experience, these worthy moments are not those associated with events or achievement, they are the moments when there is nothing—nothing but the naked moment itself.
A couple of years ago, I sat in an Eighth Century chapel in the middle of a field somewhere in Tuscany. I wasn’t alone by any means. There were a couple of charter buses noisily exhaling diesel out in the car park and a number of Nike-soled tourists strolling through the chapel looking puzzled—wondering why they were there if they weren’t allowed to take photos.
Amid it all, I sat in my own quiet bubble on a well-worn pew where presumably thousands before me had also rested. I could hear monks chanting through, or from, the ancient stone walls (probably on cassette tape, but it was still beautiful). At some point and without warning or gloomy thought, a small warm tear coasted down my right cheek. I knew then that I was supposed to pay attention and that this was one of those worthy moments. Maybe it lasted a few minutes, or just a few seconds, but I reined in my thoughts and took note, consciously filing the smells and sounds and dim lighting in my memory bank forever. It was just an ordinary moment waiting to be noticed and, fortunately, I was lucky enough to be present.
My most recent bookmark was found much closer to home and took a little more work.
My younger son is at home for a few weeks. Most evenings he ventures off into the mountains to his personal nature reserve where, with immeasurable ease and patience he sits, waits and watches for wildlife activity. When he returns after dark, he tells me what he has seen—bears munching their way through meadows of fresh clover, elk chewing on tender saplings on the opposite hillside—untroubled creatures quietly going about their business completely oblivious to any human presence.
“I want to see this too,” I say.
And so, after work one evening, my son and I head for the hills. Once we turn off the main highway, we cut back into a valley, climbing gently on a logging road. Twenty minutes later, we park the truck and begin a short, but dreadful, climb on foot to the sitting place. We are traversing the side of a very steep hill that is in the early stages of recovery after being clear-cut. Covered in a thick, green, spongy mat of clover, holes, abandoned logs and juicy piles of bear poop are hidden like booby-traps and landmines. Not only that, it has been raining for days and the clover is as slippery as a waterslide.
Between the slick vegetation and the brutal angle of the hillside, it is virtually impossible to find dependable footholds. Three yards into this adventure and both my feet are already paddling in their own private puddles. My son, of course, has tromped this route several times and has the appropriate footwear and the confidence of youth on his side; I don’t. I stumble along struggling to hold myself up with two crudely fashioned walking sticks knowing I dare not trust the ground beneath my feet. Without warning, it betrays me several times. All of a sudden I am flat on my face sliding downwards, desperate to grab on to something … anything; or I’m flat on my back flailing my walking sticks around in the hopes that one of them will catch on something solid. I’m really not enjoying it. In fact, I am terrified that I won’t be able to complete the walk.
“Just imagine how you’ll feel when this is over,” my son offers. The trouble is, I am imagining … imagining all too vividly. The picture in my head involves a continuous morphine drip and plenty of splints and bandages.
There are moments when I just want to cry but there’s nowhere I can stand upright for long enough to do so properly. In fact, I haven’t taken my eyes off the ground since we began; I have no idea how far we’ve come or where we’re headed.
“Are we nearly there?” I ask, sounding just like the child he once was.
“We’re never ‘there’,” he replies patiently, “we’re only ever ‘here’”.
Perhaps he’s very wise but, as I fight to remain erect one dubious step after another, I find his platitudes more annoying than insightful.
Eventually, of course, we do get ‘there’. Tentatively, I perch on a bit of a twig praying I don’t lose my balance and disappear rapidly down the hillside never to be seen again.
“Stay low," I’m told. “We don’t want the animals to be spooked by your blue jacket”.
Of course, my son is sporting a fine suit of camouflaged manmade fibres that keeps him dry, warm and virtually invisible. I, on the other hand, am already soaked to the skin from stress sweat and wearing only my everyday blue rain jacket. I’m now concerned that the hungry bears might mistake me for a juicy blueberry bush.
We sit for over an hour. During that time, we see a couple of beautiful golden bears calmly enjoying their evening browse and, with the binoculars, observe a few elk on the opposite hillside. Unfortunately, because I am so preoccupied with my new fear (that is, how in hell are we going to get down from here), it takes my mind most of this precious hour to settle.
But, eventually, the bookmark-worthy moment arrives. I am finally stable and numb enough on my perch to raise my head and gaze out at the mountains. I feel a wee hint of sun warming me up as it casts a magnificent glow over the mountaintops. Most importantly, I turn to my left and catch a glimpse of the look on my son’s face. He is truly in his element bathed in a most eloquent silence. He looks at me and smiles: “isn’t this the best place on earth?” he asks.
Yes.
Yes, this is the moment. I am clearly privileged to be sitting up here beside this fine young man who, somehow, knew I’d make it and knew I’d be glad that I did. I’m almost ready to forgive him … but not quite yet, that will have to wait until we are back on terra horizontalis.
The descent, of course, is much quicker—partly because we choose a more direct vertical route and partly because, for the last couple of metres, I spontaneously shoot down on my backside unencumbered by either restraint or dignity. Eventually, I come to an abrupt halt as the gravel road rises up to meet my astonished feet. Slowly, I survey the damage—a couple of bruises, a few bug bites, plenty of mud and soggy feet, but there’ll be no call for splints and bandages, just a hot bath and a stiff brandy when we get home.
