Climbing Mountains 2

This week I climbed the highest mountain in England; it is the first mountain I have climbed alone, having always had a guide with me before. You can learn a lot about yourself and about life when you're climbing up a great big hill.

I set off with map in hand, but soon lost the path (on the way back I couldn't understand how this could have happened, it's ridiculous! The path is obvious and right there, about four feet wide!) and so I found myself scrambling up a lush, green, wet and flower-strewn hillside very much on my own. I had already decided to climb the mountain from Wasdale Head, by no means a hidden track, but certainly not so populated as if you climb from Langdale. This is what I call finding my own path, the one less travelled, but what I think my mother would call, 'making life difficult.' I was following a stream, expecting it to originate from two separate streams at some point as my map indicated, but it never did. It was very steep and on a warm day, quite hard going. The dog at least was happy on this route, plunging in and out of the rushing water to keep himself cool.

I looked up; I couldn't see the way. I was expecting a path and other people to be there with me, I had been told by friends that you are never alone on Scafell, but I hadn't seen anyone else since the very lowest part of my climb. I was worried, benign as the day was, I was brought up by my father with enough knowledge to know that you should never take your safety on a mountain for granted. I couldn't know if I was going the right way except to say that I was definitely going up.

It was the crags that had first got me spooked; from Wasdale Head Pulpit Rock and Pikes Crag loom terrifyingly black and sinister at the top of the first ascent, intimidating even on a lush summer's day, perhaps more so then, when they stand in such stark contrast to the wealth of green at the foot of the mountain. I knew from my map that I would have to go round those crags to reach the summit. It did seem such a long and unnerving way to go.

I kept thinking I saw a path, but in truth those were just the tracks of the sheep. I became disheartened: I was tired, I had been walking steeply uphill for an hour or so and I didn't know the way. Why hadn't I just walked up from a nice pub in Langdale on the well-walked and obvious path? I stopped. I had a drink and admired the view. Looking back I could see how far I had come and how beautiful it was. The rain that had been forecast showed no sign of coming, the skies were white with cloud, but bright with the sun behind them; occasionally it broke through and we were bathed in a yellow warmth that cheered everything. Wast Water gleamed in the foot of the valley, strange but from that height the lake seemed reassuringly solid and dependable. It would be there and I could always navigate my way back to it if I wanted to.

I went on. I thought about life and how you don't always have the map, or else you misread it and end up going a different way. Sometimes the landmarks there (health, home, work, family) disappear and you are left without a guide, often at the most difficult parts of your climb. I thought about being alone and having the courage to carry on, even when you can't see the way and you are not sure how or why you ended up here. I thought about standing at the foot of a mountain and feeling daunted by the huge task ahead of you, but how each accomplishment in life is achieved the same way, by taking one small step at a time. I thought about learning to rely on yourself and to trust yourself; how hard it can be to believe that you have it in you to keep going. And I thought about the impossibility of turning back, how you can never again walk a path that you have already travelled, because the path is never the same and the view this time is different.

It is faith, of course, that keeps us going, a sense that somehow we will be able to do it. We can look back and see the way that we have walked and how it is filled with beauty and love and sometimes difficult things; how even hard times can make sense in retrospect.

Sometimes we are climbing mountains just for the fun of it, other times it takes all of our energy just to get out of bed in the morning, have a shower and face the day (I am sorry if that is where you are just now).

Oh, we are human and don't respond well to traversing those same old roads, time and time again, wondering why nothing ever changes. Even rats go mad in those conditions. We are born to roam and to discover and to adapt to new circumstances and this we do, better than any other creature on earth. It is our birthright to seek and to expand, to set ourselves challenges and to meet them, or at least to glory in the attempt we have made.

I shared some flapjack with the dog; I sat on a rock and looked down into the valley and up to the crest of the next hill, wondering what was beyond it; I put on my backpack and went onwards and upwards. I rounded those bleak crags and made my way up to the rocky summit of the mountain. It was cold and blowy, I was higher than the birds and touching the sky, looking down upon the vast and beautiful fells spread out in all directions at my feet. I took a photograph of myself and my dog up there and my smile is true, my eyes are clear. I was proud and satisfied to be there.

The day after I climbed a second mountain. Skiddaw is ancient and beautiful, a pleasure to climb; there are silent parts of the walk, where you are sheltered from the wind and all you can hear are the birds and the sheep and other parts that are wildly exposed to the elements, a biting wind rushes at you, the cloud is so low it curls around your body and it is very cold. From the top of Skiddaw you can see everything: the town of Keswick, the sea stretching away into seeming nothingness and miles and miles of green, undulating fells laid out like a promise.

This time I chose the easy and most popular route. It is impossible to lose. I set off early and spent most of the walk on my own.

Although it was very steep in parts and challenging enough, it turns out that walking the well-worn path just isn't quite the same: there is no fear to face, no courage to find and no challenge other than the resolve required to walk that high and that far.

It's not that I am a daredevil, it's only that I like to see a bit inside myself and to learn something new about life while I am travelling. If you are a yogi, then so do you.

Sarah x

(I wrote this back in 2013 - almost ten years ago! And I have climbed many mountains since and continue to find just the same joy at the top of every one. And that dog for those of you who knew him, was my beloved Cosmo RIP x)

Climbing Mountains

I climbed a mountain last weekend. I climbed it with my dog. There are lots of references to mountains in yoga practice: you can meditate like a mountain, solid and still, rooted in the earth, yet rising to the heavens, or visualise a mountain when you sit. Some of our greatest teachers spent time living in caves on mountains, like Ramana Maharishi on Arunachala and there are sacred mountains all over India. Here in the UK there are mountains where saints and mystics went to pray or to spend time alone: there is a cave in the hillside on Holy Isle where the 6th Century mystic Saint Molaise lived and I recently climbed Carningli (Mountain of the Angels) in Wales, which 5th Century Saint Brynach climbed when he wanted to commune with the angels.

The thing that strikes you when you reach the top of a mountain is how peaceful it is up there: when you are at the top of a mountain, you can completely understand why some people climb them to talk with the angels. It is quiet on top of a mountain, no matter how many other climbers you are sharing the space with, the wind howls in your ears even on the finest of days and you really can't hear anything but the roar of it in your head. It is a place to clear your mind, to seek answers to the questions that have been travelling with you. Up there, you feel so close to something elemental, it seems that an answer might manifest itself from the sky which seems so near.

The view wraps around you and instills you with awe whichever way you turn to look. It is exciting to stand so high and to see so much, to feel so small and so far above the workaday world, it is easy to believe as you stand there, that one of the siddhis (mystical powers) of the yogis that Patanjali spoke of might be true: that you can make yourself both as small as an atom and as huge as a universe. You feel both as you stand there, a tiny element on a great big hill, but somehow elevated, encompassing everything you see, one with all that surrounds you.

When you walk down into the valley on a sunny day, you are struck by the silence, more arresting for having been up at the summit for a while with that roaring wind in your face. There are no words here, no sign-boards, no pictures, no advertisements, no roads, no concrete paths, no houses, no cars, not even any aeroplanes to mar the sky. And you realise how noisy this life is and how easy it is to become so filled with all of that noise, those words, with the images and the stories, that you can't very easily hear the sound of your own heart, of the little voice inside you that knows what it wants and needs, and which is so easily squashed by the more brazen sounds of the world. And it's already hard enough hearing it through the noise of other people's opinions.

In yoga we are blessed to have a method for seeking and finding that small voice, no matter where we live and what we do with our days; withdrawing into unstimulated silence is what we make time to do. But I urge you to find some bigger space for your silence this summer, because what you find there will inspire you. And when you get there, see if you can just be quiet for a time and let what is wash over you without the need for comment, or reaching out for others to share your experience, or getting out your phone to take a photo or two.

Indeed, the bigger space for your silence could be right here in your every day life: can you spend an evening without turning on the television or the radio? Can you commute to work without reading any of those adverts that line the walls? Can you spend a minute or two just in the outside air, on your own, in silence - a cigarette-break for the soul?

Ramana Maharishi, who made his lifelong home alongside the sacred mountain of Arnuachala, told the thousands of devotees who came to him that silence was the purest teaching. For him, it was that simple.

And what is there in life, but seeking that silent beauty everywhere and knowing it for what it is.

Everything might lead to this.

Sarah x

(I wrote this back in 2013 - almost ten years ago! And I have climbed many mountains since and continue to find just the same joy at the top of every one. And that dog for those of you who knew him, was my beloved Cosmo RIP x)

Letting Go

One of the hardest lessons of life might be learning to let go.

Letting go of past relationships, old jobs, old romances, beloved pets and, of course, people when they die. Letting go of parts of ourselves that we have outgrown or which naturally cede to create space for the new.

Letting go of good health is difficult. Particularly if there is no hope of return to the good health of old.

If we want to stay adventurous, if we want to enjoy life and be filled with joy, if we want to overcome the anger that sometimes accompanies loss - that sense that something has gone wrong and can never be put right again - then we must learn to accommodate our losses. To live alongside them with as much acceptance and good humour as we can.

We can miss something forever, and often we do, yet there is always joy, always. There is love and beauty when you look for it. It’s only that sometimes life asks us to look somewhere new for it.

The new places where joy lives are often smaller and more quiet. I still have not lost the habit of being in a bookshop and seeing a book that my father in law would love and being sorry that he has gone and so has missed it. Sometimes I read or listen to things on his behalf, buoyed by the idea of the conversation we would have had about it afterwards. I don’t get to talk to him any more, but I do get to think of him often and wonder what he would have thought of all of the things that are happening now.

Of course, one day we too will be gone and we will have to find a way to let go of our lives as graciously as possible. This is not morbid, it is a simple fact of life. Buddhists teach a type of meditation where you imagine your own death. It is a powerful thing to acknowledge that impermanence, but more than that it is a joyful act, because it reminds us that life is so beautiful and brief, why waste it on what is not truly important.

As is so often the case, nature shows us the way: tides come in and out, washing the beach clean as they do so, flowers bloom and fade, trees grow green all summer and then fade in a blaze of glory.

Let go of the old and embrace the new without regret. Try to not hold onto life too tightly, you cannot save everything and nor would you really want to, since some of the best things you have are here because something else was gone. Childhood opens into lively teenage freedom, youth mellows towards middle aged wisdom, wild days mature into the joys of mother/fatherhood.

One day we will have to let go of life completely, and who knows what adventures begin then.

Sarah x