Standing on this side of a creek that seemed totally impassable and wanting ever so much to get to the other side to complete our adventure was the kind of moment in life that creates great discomfort for me. We were winter camping in the Lac Philippe area and had as one of our goals for the winter to snowshoe the trail that circumnavigates Lac Philippe. With all the erratic weather this past winter we hadn’t gotten around to setting out on the trail until today. It was a sub zero day but with a number of warm spring-like days recently, including a fair bit of rain, the run off was high causing this creek to be impassable. We’d been given advance warning when we registered for our camping stay, but had hoped the situation was exaggerated. So here we were. We’d checked out all the possible crossings and decided not to go on, the consequences too high with the stream running fast and deep. We sat on a tree branch in the sun and sipped our tea before retracing our steps.
And along came another adventurer, on his own and about half my age. He too was put off with the barrier of the stream, but, less inclined to accept defeat than I was. After a moment of consideration, he propelled himself and jumped across carrying on, leaving a collapsing bank of the creek behind him.
David White’s well known poem, The Old Interior Angel, certainly came to my mind.
One day the hero sits down
afraid to take another step,
and the old interior angel
limps slowly in
with her no-nonsense compassion
and her old secret
and goes ahead.
“Namaste” you say
and follow.
However, I didn’t follow and wonder now it there’s anything notable about that, other than the simple fact that I’m twice his age and have artificial knee replacements in both knees that I tend to protect. Or are those just excuses in my mind? Perhaps my “Namaste” is to be at peace with this stage of my life, where I am right now, thrilling in the adventures my senior body is able to embrace.
Here is David Whyte’s beautiful poem in its entirety:
THE OLD INTERIOR ANGEL
by David Whyte, from Fire in the Earth, 1992
Young, male, and
immortal as I was,
I stopped at the first sight
of that broken bridge.
The taut cables snapped
and the bridge planks
concertina-ed into a crazy jumble
over the drop,
four hundred feet
to the craggy stream.
I sat and watched
the wind shiver
on the broken planks,
as if by looking hard
and long enough,
the life-line might
spontaneously repair itself,
–but watched in vain.
An hour I sat in silence,
checking each involuntary
movement of the body toward
that trembling bridge
with a fearful mind, and an
empathic shake of the head.
Finally, facing defeat and about
to go back the way I came
to meet the others.
Three days round by another pass.
Enter the old mountain woman
with her stooped gait, her dark clothes
and her dung basket clasped to her back.
Small feet shuffling for the precious
gold-brown fuel for cooking food.
Intent on the ground she glimpsed my feet
and looking up said, “Namaste.” “I greet the God in you”
the last syllable held like a song.
I inclined my head and clasped my hands
to reply, but before I could look up,
she turned her lined face
and went straight across
that shivering chaos of wood
and broken steel in one movement.
One day the hero sits down
afraid to take another step,
and the old interior angel
limps slowly in
with her no-nonsense compassion
and her old secret
and goes ahead.
“Namaste” you say
and follow.
