Dear friend,
It’s a good kind of tired you get from being in the mountains. We hiked a couple of hours up dirt roads onto loose mountain trails to a high lake that was emerald green and lemonade coloured but named black lake, Lago Nero.
We’d had a slow start to the morning and a few false starts with our route finding which saw us climbing up during the hottest part of the day. Something we had hoped to avoid. I found myself struggling with the ascent, which Chiara pointed out is normal for Alpine walks but there was a moment where she stopped from her vantage point several metres above and suggested I control my breathing.
“Treat it like meditation,” she offered “try to even out and calm your breathing.”
The thing with going into the mountains with Chiara is she grew up hopping from crag to crag like a mountain goat. So if you were to pass us on the mountain side, you’d see a tiny woman about five feet two carrying a back pack, looking like she belongs up there, with an if not partially sunburned then at least red in the face six foot guy, trailing several metres behind sans rucksack, cracking stupid jokes in compensation and sweating profusely.
It hadn’t seriously crossed my mind that I wouldn’t be able to make it to the lake, but as she counselled me on my breathing I did realise that I was nose panting quite loudly with the heat and exertion, loud enough to make her stop and turn.
The false self pounced on the opportunity.
“Who are you lecturing on medi…” then, noticing my ragged breathing I let the voice go. I calmed and elongated my breath and focused on putting one front before the other.
“Is this your idea of fun then?” the voice tried again, “I’m tired I need a rest.”
“Who’s tired,” I replied silently “Who needs a rest?”
A little giggle rose up inside me, and the false self retreated a little more of its edges worn away.
You can do a lot to undue the false self by not giving voice to it.
On the outside, I wonder what it looked to the local hikers? A part boiled half naked man in a straw hat and swimming shorts giggling to himself as he struggles up a roasting hot mountain trail. Thankfully we only passed three humans and one dog on the way up.
When we got to the lake the view was yet another delight, taking away what little breath I had left. We found a place to leave our gear and eased our way into the cold green water. Being done in, I let myself slip below the surface, the water reviving and restoring my strength. I lay on my back and floated while Chiara worked up the courage to dive in. Little fish nibbling at her feet and toes.
A party of scouts were at the lake shouting and yelling at each other the way you do when you’re a kid, and my false self had some fun with that. Minor irritations, like making a ton of noise at a placid beauty spot - let him without sin caste the first stone.
We talked about the parties we’ve held that went on into the next day and the poor neighbours back when we were old enough to know better. You just have to accept what is. Fighting with the present moment is the false self’s stock in trade.
Everywhere you go, there you are, to borrow a phrase from Ram Dass.
The black lake is green.
And beautiful beyond measure.
Mountain forests and pastures and butterflies and the sounds of alpine cows.
Here they don’t separate the calfs from their mothers.
People have their problems, just like everywhere.
But to be in such immense beauty.
A mature lady sat in her mountain home and watched our descent into the valley floor. She sat perfectly still. Her face seemed serene. I wondered how it must be to live in this landscape. To wake to it throughout the seasons.
Only fifty six people stay in the hamlet we’re visiting all year round.
The weight of numbers is light here.
Soon we’ll be heading back to the city.
This place will seem like a dream.
Often it’s that way for me.
When you leave.
It seems like you were never there at all.
Till tomorrow
Love
Mikey