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A recent trip to South Carolina’s Francis
Beidler Forest turned out to be an unexpected lesson in yoga, and the art of
mindfulness. The forest is part of the Four Holes Swamp ecosystem, and is
the world’s largest remaining stretch of bald cypress swamp. In in this day
of cell phones, construction-induced traffic jams, and noise pollution, it
is hard to describe the comfort one feels upon entering a land that appears
exactly as it looked 300 years ago, and trees that over 1000 years old.
Add to that the fact that I love cypress swamps, and it’s not hard to
imagine that I was in my own personal nirvana.
The fact that the droughts had temporarily left
the swamp too dry for canoe passage was of no consequence, as the extensive
boardwalk trail proved more than sufficient at penetrating the deeper
pockets of flora and fauna. Wildlife was as plentiful as it is on those
ubiquitous nature shows; within 3 hours, we saw (besides the requisite
squirrels and deer) white ibis, a golden crowned night heron, prothonotary
warblers, a barred owl, a hummingbird, spotted and painted turtles, tree
lizards sporting bright pink dewlaps (throats), a cottonmouth snake, an
ovenbird, a carolina wren, and yellow-billed cuckoos. Oh, and of course, an
alligator. Later, we were privy to the hoots of barred owls, pileated
woodpecker taps and calls, frogs whose croaks ranged from a cricket-like
loop to the pluck of a banjo, and, with the help of a high-frequency
instrument, the cacophony of overhead bats.
It was not so much our self-guided day journey
that produced the yogic experience, however, it was the naturalist-led night
hike. Our guide urged us to refrain from using our flashlights, that we
were bringing them only as a matter of emergency. Early on, our eyes seemed
to adjust amazingly well to this arrangement, but he warned us that
eventually, as this particular night would be devoid of all moonlight,
things would become pitch black. At first, it seemed he was exaggerating;
for while most of the hikers gradually began to disappear even at close
range, anyone wearing a white t-shirt—I was one of them—remained at least a
shadowy blur. But that false security, like the rest of the scene, soon was
swallowed by the night. I can now vouch, there is a shade of dark that is
deeper than pitch black: I call it, “swamp black.”
This sensory loss was disconcerting enough, but
at least with a group of 20, you felt a certain safety-in-number assurance.
Yet just as I was pondering a nightmarish scenario of what one would do if
they strayed from the group and got lost out here, the naturalist froze in
his tracks, apparently with a scheme up his sleeve. Now that we'd been out
for about an hour, it was time to turn us "loose," so to speak, for the
remainder of our excursion. As we stood, wide-eyed (well, I was, of course
I couldn’t see if anyone else was), he asked that we break up into groups of
no more than two, preferably solo. One by one, he released each of us
individually to begin our one-mile hike back to the visitor's center alone,
in total darkness, leaving what seemed an interminable amount of time in
between hikers. His idea was to allow the amplification of our senses and
internal awareness, giving as close an experience of just you and nature as
possible. Dan, my husband, nudged me from behind and asked if I wanted to
take the 25-minute return hike by myself. To my shock, I felt my mouth
whisper, “yes.” At the last second, however, Dan darted ahead with me.
Which was just as well. In fact, he may as well not have been behind me at
all, as all I could do, all he could do, was grope the air in front of us,
and hope that at no point would we accidentally make a 180 degree turn and
stagger further away from civilization.
What’s amazing is how deftly your other senses
immediately compensate for the loss of one. Not only were the nocturnal
sounds--the barred owl calls, leaf rustles, wind whistles, water
agitation--ever pervasive, practically thundering, but the nighttime
fragrances felt thick and impenetrable; I could literally taste the mossy
air. Every step felt measured, meditated, deliberate. The slightest wobble
of balance sent shock waves throughout my joints. My left hand dipped down
periodically to check that the railing of the boardwalk was still there,
another way to ensure we would not inadvertently spin around and trek the
wrong direction. Later, we compared the experience from each other’s point
of perspective. As the leader, I had to continually swallow the fear of
encountering everything—whatever that would be—first. Dan, on the other
hand, kept thinking he heard footsteps echoing right behind us; on a return
trip the next morning, we discovered the source: a delayed rebound of the
wood planks we were walking on.
Despite the lack of light, we managed to see but
one tiny mass of objects. The lightening bugs, already profuse, now
appeared as flashing, dancing Christmas lights, and every now and then, one
would flash within a foot of me, making me think I was being blinded by the
blaze of someone's flashlight. Looking overhead, we could actually decipher
the outline of the towering cypress against the night sky, but returning our
attention forward, we were once again tumbling forth into complete
blackness.
Happily, we finally caught the first glimmer of
light coming from the visitor’s center. All adrenaline used, we now shifted
to a casual saunter for the remaining yards of our walk. Not surprisingly,
entering the glowing building was now tantamount to confronting a quasar to
our unaccustomed eyes. The feeling of safe return was that of relief, but
oddly, followed by….disappointment. There is something awesome about
putting yourself in the position in which you logically know you will find
your way, yet have this unpaved—or in this case, unlit—path to get you
there. This is where I see the parallel to yoga. Yoga, at least in part,
is about putting yourself back into unfamiliar territory, learning postures
and techniques previously uncharted in your body. Yet, despite the
trepidation, you persevere, with the reward being the joy of not only
reaching your destination, but knowing you overcame the fear of the unknown
to do so. -ep
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