Writing Prompt #6 Write about a place that is holy for you and a ritual you do or want to do there.

 

The Mist Trail

My whole life, I’ve always claimed that Yosemite is “where my muse lives”.  I love to write, but when I get to Yosemite national park, I am moved to also paint, take pictures, hike, walk, notice, and immerse myself in the beauty there.  It’s more than beauty.  It’s a home. 

I remember one day, when I was about 12 years old, there was a watercolor class at the base of the mountains.  My mom impulsively bought me a watercolor set, paper, brushes, and an easel at the Ansel Adams gallery/art store.  It set me on a lifetime love of painting with watercolors.  On our way home, walking along the river on a trail, I was moved to paint – right then and there.  Mom found an old tin can and filled it with water and she patiently waited while I painted what I saw while sitting on a stump like an artistic Lorax, painting Truffula trees. 

However, the last time I went, it was harder to meet my muse.  I was there with my daughters and husband – a grown up now.  As the official decider-of-what-to-do, I was taken up with making sure everyone had what they needed and was comfortable (it was always too hot).  We went on hikes that I did when I was younger and I just wasn’t strong enough – in shape enough – to make it up the steep graded path or scramble up the rocks.  Just not able to do the things I used to.

After climbing up to the first viewing point of Vernal falls, I thought I was going to die!  I had to take so many rests it was embarrassing, but climbing in that 100 degree weather, hauling my big giant self-plus-backpack up the mountain was so hard.  When we got to the viewing point, there was a sign for “The Mist Trail” – 600 stone steps cut into the side of the mountain and you could feel the mist of the waterfall around you as you climbed.

A baptism.

But holy moly, I was wrecked by this hike – and I still had the whole way back down to try to negotiate without building up speed and tumbling down the path at a frantic pace, knocking hikers off the side of the trail while I flailed all the way down uncontrollably.

Was the last time I climbed the mist trail the last time I would ever climb it?  Is this the last time I would be able to make it up this far?  I felt the weight of my years (etc.) and started to feel an incredible hole inside.  This couldn't be the end.

Still, the mist trail beckoned. The girls were tired too – they weren’t used to this kind of heat and it was definitely not hiking weather.  I looked at my husband and he was game to go up the trail if I was.  The girls (who are teenagers – perfectly capable of waiting for us and reading books in the shade, brought for just such an occasion), waited at the viewing point as we ascended – “just as far as we (I) can go”.  We climbed slowly (thanks to me), but I just kept putting one foot in front of the other. 

I’d like to say that I climbed up all 600 steps and made it to the top, but I didn’t.  However, we did make it to a closer viewing point, and probably about 400 of the stairs.  There was a clear spot and I was able to lean against the face of a huge fallen boulder and just look at my waterfall straight in front of me.   Jim scrambled off the path to pursue danger or whatever, and get even closer, but I stayed put and just felt the mist bless me with its fairylike droplets and just existed for a bit. 

Jim took pictures of us when we got to that point and in one of them, I’m sweaty and smiling.  The other, I look legitimately dead.  I felt dead.  But I also felt reborn. 

I made it back down the mountain without losing control, carefully placing one foot in front of the other again and taking like 1,000 breaks.  My youngest actually hiked way ahead and then back to where we were, then way ahead, and then back, making her hike twice as long, but she loved it.

And she asked when we can go back because she truly loves it as well.  A new muse is born.

~RH

Ritual

A pool of clear water

Shaded by ferns

Where fairies surely gather

To pluck slick rocks

Smoothed by the tumbling stream

There I bare my wrists

And gently anoint each one with

Cool drops of water.

I touch each eyelid to

See more clearly

Touch each ear to

Hear more clearly

Touch my lips to

Speak more carefully.

I touch the back of my neck to

Feel the presence and peace

Of all that I cannot understand.

Water drops dry on my skin

Ferns fall away

The rush of water yields to traffic

While I touch the still damp pebble

A talisman in my pocket.

~TC