“To stay with that shakiness – to stay with a broken heart, with a rumbling stomach, with the feeling of hopelessness – that is the path of true awakening. Sticking with that uncertainty, getting the knack of relaxing in the midst of chaos, learning not to panic – this is the spiritual path. Getting the knack of catching ourselves, of gently and compassionately catching ourselves, is the path of the warrior.”
Pema Chodron
I must be out of my mind.
I had signed up to join a group climbing the winter route of the Lion Head trail on our way to summit Mount Washington. In January. Using an ice ax.
Here I was, at seven o’clock in the morning, packed up and ready to go. It was in the single digits at the base of the mountain. At the BASE. With a forecast of 50-60 mph winds that would be joining us as well on our trek up the mountain. I was anything BUT in the present moment. My brain was moving faster than the wind. Will I be cold? Will these boots hurt? Will I be cold? What if I get tired? Will I be cold? What if my ice ax doesn’t hold and I hurtle down the mountain? Will I be cold? What if I slip in my crampons, slide down the mountain, taking the entire group with me, stab one of them in the eye with my crampons, and suffer the wrath of all the people I so desperately want to like me?
And again…will I be cold? I hate being cold. I fight against it, do everything I can to avoid it, get angry at it, and swing my fists at it. Not the point of this post.
As we started walking, I could not get my brain to settle down. The thoughts were flying, my heart was pounding, and my stomach was experiencing what can only be described as evil butterflies flying around and bumping into each other. The reality is, I was terrified of what was coming. Yes, the present moment was not scary, after all, I was simply putting one foot in front of the other. But the present moment was being drowned out by future moments I knew would come true. The training we had received yesterday was to prepare us for what the winter route up Lion Head was famous for. It is the steepest of the trails that lead up Mount Washington. Go big or go home.
We arrive at the spot. Where the steep incline begins. My ice ax in hand and my crampons on my feet, I take the first step. And then the second. Ice ax, right crampon, left crampon and repeat. My focus on what I was doing was insane and intense. The sound around me faded into the background. Ice ax, right crampon, left crampon and repeat. And then, finally, I make it. I look around me. I see my friends who had gone before me, and the view in front of me.
But then I’m flooded. How the hell am I going to get down? If I fall, it will be brutal and certainly end with my death. How will they get my body off the mountain? Will they die of hypothermia while trying to drag me down the trail? What if the fear stops me at the top and I’m immobilized and have to stay at the beginning of the steep section forever?
Stop. Those butterflies in my stomach had started up again. But where were they while I was axing my way up that last section? Nonexistent. There had been no pounding heart, no flying thoughts. There was only focus. Only the present moment. And the present moment wasn’t scary. It was actually…fun.
As I sat there, looking out at the endless mountain ranges and blue skies, I realized I could tolerate this. I could tolerate the present moment. There was room for the fear. There was room for the misery. There was room for the pain and joy and confidence and grief. I could sit with these feelings. There was space for all of them. Each one felt different. Each one felt foreign. I allowed there to be room for each feeling, and also for the unknown. I settled into the feeling of groundlessness. To the feeling of the rug being pulled out from under me and myself gently floating into a sky full of uncertainty. During this hike, there were so many unknowns. I couldn’t know what would happen or how it would end. I couldn’t predict anything. I could only sit with this feeling of groundlessness, and gently attend to each feeling that came up.
So, I sat in my spot at the top of the steep section, soaked in all of the feelings, and noticed how they didn’t kill me. I got up, gathered up my fear and misery and pain and joy and confidence and grief, told them each they were going to be okay, and went on my way up the mountain. I left the butterflies behind to fend for themselves.