On Change

Change come fast…
And change come slow…
But everything changes...you’ve got to go.

~ From the musical “Caroline or Change”

Living things deal with change according to their nature and the circumstances of their environment. Change can be experienced harshly, even for those blessed with the most resilient natures. Unexpected change—loss, illness, natural catastrophes—can hit us especially hard and cause us to question the most basic elements of our existence: purpose, passion, faith.

In an ironic twist, Nature became one of the most basic resources I turned to as a child in the face of implacable and inexplicable change. I say ironic because Nature is change. Nothing in Nature remains the same from one day to the next.

In Nature we see lives that are much briefer than ours and those that extend an almost unimaginable length of time. In my neighborhood are the remnants of gnarled, 400 year old Valley Oaks that were not removed when the subdivision was built. These enormous trees stand not as sentinels but as ghostly reminders of an oak savannah that was the homeland of the Chumash and Gabrielino Indians, long before the Spanish settlers claimed their land. And in the alkaline soil of the White Mountains of Inyo County live the oldest beings we know of on this planet: the Bristlecone Pines. The Methuselah tree has lived more than 4800 years in the limestone soil of the White Mountains. When you walk among these eldest and look out at the Southern Sierras and Mt. Whitney in the distance, you feel rooted in the flow of history, a part of something much larger and sacred then an individual life.

The immediacy of change and the fear or grief that often accompanies it can bind us to an unending present moment of suffering that neglects this larger perspective and the constant renewal that is a part of our natural world. Life finds a way to continue, to survive, to thrive. The chaparral of Southern California is a fire ecology, embracing the white hot heat of annual brush fires in order to propagate a variety of native plants. If you live near a burn area then you know the wonder of seeing the chaparral come back to life in the year following a fire. The rebirth is a miniature repetition of evolution. First to return are the simplest plants and grasses, followed by those of ever more complexity. Nature can remind us of who we are and the dignity of a finite life. It reflects to us the courage and hope of persistence, even in the face of unexpected change.

I go to the hills when my heart is grieving…..I know I will see, hear, smell and touch what I’ve seen before. It is reassuring that these treasured features of the landscape are still watching over the land and its inhabitants. But I also know that every time I go, I will see something new. Something magical or scary; charming or awe-inspiring. Some sight that will pierce me with beauty so potent that I am transported from the daily drama of my life. Something that reminds me how spectacular it is to be alive and how fortunate I am to be able to see, think, walk and yes…upon occasion twirl on a mountain top or sing out loud.

Change come fast and change come slow, but everything changes.

In this season of reflection and renewal as well as celebration and thankfulness, I wish for you the most potent and powerful connection to those sources of inspiration that have sustained you through the course of your life...a life marked by change.

Summertime Zen

Although I am not partial to extremes of heat, I do love summer for the long daylight hours. Outdoor activities are possible after work and it is a wonderful way to “decompress” after the long day. In the Los Angeles area we rest at latitude 34 north. On June 21, the longest day of the year, we have about 14 ½ hours of daylight and by the end of July the daylight will be diminished to about 14 hours a day.

If you lived in Fairbanks, Alaska at latitude 64 north, then around May 31 each year you would begin to have 24 hours of daylight although technically, the sun would dip below the horizon at about Midnight and rise again at 3:30 am. The time in between would be what the meteorologists call “civil twilight”. This is the time after sunset and before sunrise when the sun is below the horizon but not more than 6° below it. During civil twilight, the sky is still quite bright and only the very brightest stars and satellites can be seen. At 2:00 am in Fairbanks, it would be about as light as it is now in Los Angeles at around 8:15 pm. You might wonder if the good folks of Fairbanks are up all night carousing in the summer, but the working folk have to get up in the morning the same time as they do in any other season so things are fairly quiet during the wee hours of the morning. It is possible, however, to see folks floating, canoeing or kayaking down the Chena River at 9:00 pm when it is still about as light as it would be at 3:00 pm in Los Angeles.

The Brooks Range stretches north of Fairbanks about 700 miles east to west. North of the Brooks Range and latitude 68, the sun does not dip below the horizon in the high summer months of June and July, and it truly is light 24 hours a day. This produces a singular experience that many philosophers would recognize as “Zen time”. For those that travel to the far north, the term “Arctic Time” is more commonly applied.

When you are on Arctic Time, all clock requirements are removed. The weather the land, the wildlife and your own impulses guide action. This is the real secret of being on Arctic Time—it’s a euphemism for being in the present moment and experiencing a stillness that allows you to truly connect with the world around you. This stillness is inside of all of us but the modern world piles so much artifice on top of it that we can’t sense it unless we sink deeply into a very quiet place. The place is in us, but the external environment can take us there just as meditation can do so.

It’s rather tough to stay in the present moment when you have the harrying quality of time nipping at your heels like a sheepdog every day. I mean, what do you listen to when input is exploding on you every moment? Do you listen to a mockingbird or do you listen to CNN blaring from the TV? Do you dial into what the person who is speaking to you is really trying to say or are you thinking about what you need to buy at the store?

You must notice the life around you to be able to respond to it. It seems to be a lot easier to be in the present moment without the distraction of work schedules and specific times when you are supposed to eat or watch a TV show, sleep, clean house or do laundry. Imagine if all your cues for when to do something were removed: no clock time, no daylight or evening to drive behaviors like when to rise and when to sleep...just daylight all the time. Can you imagine this?

I can’t avoid the compartmentalization of time in my life without radical rebellion/reinvention (this workshop lasts three hours; I’ve got to be at work at this time; I have only 50 minutes to speak with this client; I need to have eight hours of sleep beginning at this time). I can, however, be present in the moment within the compartmentalized time buckets and notice or attend to what I’m listening to/watching. Happily, anytime I am immersed in the natural world regardless of the latitude I seem to have a much easier time connecting with that stillness.

Give it a try during these long days of summer light. See if the natural world can help you arrive at a place of stillness where you can experience your connection with the life around you more fully. Take a walk in your local park or try a short hike after work …unless you live in Alaska, of course. Then by all means, take a long hike after work!

The idea of permanence should be surrendered.
- Thich Nhat Han

Spring Fling

Spring is a precious commodity in Southern California. The hillsides are a vivid green after months of dull brown, and California poppies and a variety of lupine take the field, creating an astonishing show of color in the meadows and along the roadsides. The boldness of the season evokes a corresponding wanderlust in me and I find myself hungering for new landscapes, trails and waterways. Although I typically begin with a destination in mind, the magic happens when I stumble on the completely unexpected.

This year’s wanderings are the cause of this very tardy post, and my most recent adventure took me to Kern County, north of Los Angeles and Ventura Counties. Until recently, Kern County was the county I passed through to get to the Sierras or to the Mt. Pinos/Frazier Park area. A perfunctory geography and one I (mistakenly) thought was eminently suited to passing through. I had, however, noticed the signs pointing to Lake Isabella while motoring through Bakersfield or roaring up the 395, and my curiosity about the lake kept growing.

I rose at 5:00 am one Sunday morning to get an early start and have as much time as possible to explore. I was rewarded with a beautiful clear day and hillsides dusted with California Poppies near the Tejon Pass along I-5. At our higher elevations, wildflowers are still blooming so if you missed the initial show, head above 4,000 feet for a continuing feast of color.

Driving east from Bakersfield along Hwy 178 I cruised through new housing developments and acres of ranches before the Greenhorn Mountains rose suddenly from the valley floor and I plunged into a steep gorge cut out by the Kern River. The North fork of the Kern begins high up in the Sierras near Mt. Whitney and drains in a southerly direction into the San Joaquin Valley. There are picnic areas and turnouts along the road and a number of small, unimproved campgrounds dot the south side of the river, attracting devoted fishermen and women.

The river was pounding through the gorge on the day that I drove up and a bit of additional research revealed that snow in the Kern river drainage is not melting as quickly as usual due to a cooler than normal spring so water levels remain at spring highs. This section of the gorge offers many Class III and IV runs, and the sound and sight of the river is quite spectacular. The narrow two lane road winds through Kern Canyon for about 8 miles before opening up to a wider thoroughfare and the small town of Lake Isabella.

Lake Isabella is a large reservoir in a placid, pastoral setting that was created in 1953 when the confluence of the North and South forks of the Kern were dammed. Unbelievably two towns had to be relocated when the damn was built: Lake Isabella and Kernville. I can report by observation that people do lake-ish things at Lake Isabella like fishing, boating and picnicking. There are a number of campgrounds scattered around the lake and offroading is allowed on adjacent BLM lands. In 2006 the dam was determined to be unstable and 40% of the water was let out while further studies were made. The dam apparently bisects a serious fault that could cause catastrophic failure following an earthquake. Hmm…placid? Maybe not….

The best part of my trip was the sudden, completely unplanned turn onto Hwy 155 that I made while driving clockwise around the lake. This placed me on a road headed into the southwestern edge of the Sequoia National Forest. Almost as suddenly as I had entered the gorge, the landscape changed from high chaparral and Gray pines to a forest of Western Red Cedar and Douglas Fir. The opportunity to get out and hike was irresistible, and I followed a forest road heavily used by snowmobiles and Nordic skiers in the winter. The forest was particularly interesting because at approximately 5,000 feet there were Black Oaks that hadn’t leafed out yet next to Douglas Fir, Sugar Pine, Red Cedar and the occasional Ponderosa. Unexpectedly I came upon crusty areas of melting snow which crunched satisfyingly under my hiking boots.

Let’s see….blue sky, hiking-in-shorts-weather, gorgeous views, not another human being sighted for three hours and snow--all in an intriguing mixed coniferous forest. Perfect. I am now a Kern County convert. Hoping your late spring explorations are filled with at least a few surprises—summer can wait just a bit longer.

Stop and Smell the Tarantulas

One afternoon Darla and I were hiking, and we came across a tarantula in the Upper Los Virgenes Preserve, located in the Simi Hills of Northern Los Angeles County. Darla is my high energy chi-terrier and the stately march of the tarantula across the trail was worth about one sniff before she was ready to move on. I immediately captured an image of the arachnid on my cell phone…nothing impresses elementary school kids like hairy spiders, and I’m not above using any ethical means possible to create meaningful relationships with young clients.

Tarantulas are especially elusive because they generally hide out in an underground burrow during the day and don’t come out until the evening when there are fewer predators and more insects. The specimen we encountered was most likely Aphonopelma chalcodes and was unexpectedly out for a stroll in the late afternoon. These tarantulas are found throughout the West and eat lizards, crickets, beetles, grasshoppers, crickets, cicadas and caterpillars.

If Darla and I had been striding along that day with the sole intention of accumulating miles, we might have missed this particular resident of the oak savannah through which we were walking. We might even have—God forbid—stepped on the poor tarantula. But since Darla and I were both “sniffing” around, eyes wide and ears pricked forward, we immediately noticed the large arachnid crossing the trail.

Every hike is an opportunity for me to encounter the unexpected or find a hidden treasure. Walking gives me the time to stop, bend down and examine a plant, or stop and observe an animal or bird. Darla and I regularly torment each other with unplanned stops when we are walking together. She must sniff something irresistible that is invisible to my senses, and I must force her to wait while I admire a rocky outcrop or follow the unhurried flight of a red tailed hawk hunting high above the trail.

When I am present with all of my senses—sound, sight, smell, touch and taste—then I am able to experience an almost mind blowing amount of detail. Like the small rabbits that populate the chaparral and freeze in place so as to appear invisible when threatened, I stop, stand still, and am suddenly transported as I blend into the landscape and take it all in. For a moment I’m relieved to not be me, but simply another part of the larger landscape.

Darla and I paused just long enough to admire the tarantula and to make sure it made it from one side of the trail to the other without harm. What a privilege to be able to cross paths with this seldom seen neighbor. What a gift to allow ourselves to take in the larger, natural world.

The Case for Humans

My friend Susan, a claims adjuster by trade, has recently been grappling with a change in management control at her firm, as well as her concerns about proving herself to a brand new leadership team.

The other day, Susan told me about a dream she’d had. In the dream, she found herself standing outdoors in the afternoon sun before a panel of four judges: a sea otter, a red tailed hawk, an eight-point Mule Deer buck, and a massive 400-year-old Valley Oak tree. Susan described their mood as “stern, intimidating, and in no mood for nonsense.”

“Really… I don’t understand what you have to offer,” said the Sea Otter. “It’s not like you can float forever in the ocean, eating all your meals there, drinking salt water and rafting with your friends.”

“You aren’t fire resistant,” grumbled the Valley Oak. “You wouldn’t last five minutes if your body caught on fire.” He scowled. “Even if the top of your head doesn’t burn, there won’t be any rebirth.”

“I know you’re clever with your hands, but really… can you spot a mouse from one hundred feet in the air?” shrieked the Hawk.

“And how about your digestive system?” asked the Mule Deer Buck rhetorically. “Two stomachs are better then one when it comes to eating just about anything and surviving.”

“I… I don’t know what to say,” Susan stammered. No one spoke. The ability of these living things to survive in the most extreme conditions, combined with her own undeniable fragility, left her with a feeling of awe and, as she described it, utter uselessness. “It didn’t help,” she told me, “that I couldn’t really claim superior cognitive intelligence, given that our main role as human beings, to date, seems to be to eliminate or pollute the very habitats that make the lives of these beings possible.” She shook her head. “Suddenly, opposable thumbs seemed so yesterday.”

She went on. “Here I’ve been so worried about communicating what a great claims adjustor I am, and suddenly my whole value as a human being is called into question. I mean, what is my purpose here? What is anybody’s purpose? The animals and plants seemed so certain of their own roles.”

Susan and I soon found ourselves in a discourse about who we are as human beings, and the fact that we don’t have an obvious ecological niche to fill. We decided that we are “homo tabula rasa:” those beings that come into this world and actually get to discover who they are, define the contribution they will make and create the ecological and social niche they will fill. At the end of our conversation, Susan admitted she felt relieved by this insight.

We’re all concerned about dwindling resources and changing natural environments that have the power to impact the quality of human life, but I wonder if we are spending too much time on the symptoms, and not enough time on the origin of our condition. Following Susan’s dream I have been reflecting not only on my own purpose but on the purpose of humankind overall.

When a panel of fauna and flora stare me down and ask me to justify my existence, how will I answer? What is the case for humans?

Nancy Adamson, LMFT is a coaching professional and therapist who finds the natural world a constant source of inspiration and instruction.

On Taking Risks

I came to the Alaskan Arctic for many reasons.

I had a hunger to see the landscape author Jonathan Waterman described as “Where the Mountains are Nameless” and a yearning to bring back adventure and mystery into my life. I was curious to see what the sun would look like shining from the North at 3:00 in the morning and whether a 100 year old, two foot birch tree would look like a perfect bonsai miniature of its brother in a milder climate. And finally, I felt the sands of my own life rushing downstream like the silt that washes down the Canning River, and I was gripped with a sense of urgency that the trip must be taken NOW.

So I booked it. Just like that.

Some people who don’t know me very well have commented I must be a risk taker to visit some of the places I have been. Actually, I feel it’s important for you to know that I am a total wuss. Activities like surfing, zip lines, rock climbing, running into grizzly bears and Class III rapids pretty much terrify me. So even booking this trip required me to be someone I am not typically, and in doing so, I felt reborn.

Once the decision was made, every detail fell into place. Our Cessna landed in the middle of the central Arctic caribou herd migration on the way in, and we saw musk oxen and wolves during the trip—the shyest of the Arctic animals. Our guide actually knew or had known many of the people that I had read about over the years: the incomparable Mardy Murie; Heimo Korth, legendary trapper; wildlife photographer Michio Hoshino. For ten days I was the central character in the book of my life having the adventure that others were reading about. And when it was over, I walked out of the bush still and forever this new me.

Is it possible I am inspiring you to have the very thought that occurred to me while reading yet another book about the Alaskan Arctic three years ago? “I could go there”, I had said to myself all at once one December night.

How about you? Could you go “there”…wherever your “there” is?

And who will you become in the moment you make that decision to go?

Nancy Adamson, LMFT is a coaching professional and therapist who finds the natural world a constant source of inspiration and instruction. She will be making her fourth trip to the Arctic in August of 2010.