Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
Part Three
ANIMAL CHATS AND
OTHER UNIONS WITH NATURE
One autumn, while hiking in Shropshire,
we wandered into a flock of sheep.
A few were scared and walked off,
sheep-like. But they kept turning to
look back, as curious as we were.
IN THE WOODS
In 1698, in a small town in the Ukraine, Israel ben Eliezer was born. The legends say he was different from other children: While they were busy playing, he would wander into the woods and stay there for hours talking to God.
Israel grew up to be a beloved rabbi. People called him the Ba’al Shem Tov, Master of the Good Name, and he was the founder of Hasidism, a mystical movement in Judaism. He taught his followers to be on the lookout for God, who is everywhere, he said, in everyone and everything.
Until the end of his life, the Ba’al Shem continued his forays into the woods to meditate and talk freely with God. One day a friend asked him, “Izzy, if God is everywhere, why go in the woods to pray?”
The Ba’al Shem answered, “It’s true, my friend, God is everywhere. But it’s easiest, for me, to find him in the woods.”
When I was a kid in Philly, my favorite adventures were with my cousin Eddie: bike trips to Carpenter’s Woods. We’d leave the busy streets and honking cars of Germantown and soon hear only silence or the rushing water of the creek. Resting our bikes on the fern-covered ground, we’d hike through this forest with its shafts of light. For a city girl, those times were a source of peace, and a sense of something much bigger than myself.
Years later, I discovered that those feelings could be deepened by going camping. So when I moved to Boulder, where the plains meet the mountains, John and I vowed to camp out every autumn. It’s a vow I often remind him of: “Time for our annual camping trip!” Annual in that we plan one every year—but rarely actually go. Why? Because like many things in life, camping is a lot more fun in the planning stage. And half the fun is in replying, “What are we doing this weekend? Oh, we’re going campin’.” Said with subtle overtones at once macho and righteous.
Our back-in-Manhattan friends—who have avoided such outings ever since they were kids sent to summer camp in the Catskills—are impressed. Our here-in-Boulder friends—who prefer two-week treks to two-night car camping—are not. Still, they are kindly solicitous: “Be sure to keep all your food in the car so you won’t attract bears.” Right, I nod.
Bears?! Why do I always forget little details like bears? Which brings me to the fantasizing. I mean, I always picture us tenting on the perfect site: on top of a hill amid a grove of fir trees. There we are, John and I, sitting around the starry-night campfire, hearing the primal sounds of elks bugling (if we’re lucky), and then falling into a deep sleep in our cozy tent.
Now, here’s what happened the last time we camped: It took three hours to pack our car with every possible necessity and a surplus of canned food, and by the time we arrived at Rocky Mountain National Park, we were assigned the only site left: a patch of dirt in the woods right under the power line. “No problem,” said my ever-optimistic husband. “The only time we’ll be in the tent is when we’re sleeping. Let’s go on a beautiful hike.”
Good idea—until it started raining. Sloshing through mud, we returned to our campsite and soon surrendered any dreams of a campfire. Stashing our marshmallows into the car, we drove four miles to find a good diner.
Later, back in the tent, I suddenly remembered why we rarely go camping: achy back from lying on hard dirt floor; going to the bathroom in the cold, rainy night; waking every ten minutes ’cause of those damn bugling elks. I was not a happy camper.
Truth is, when I lived in Manhattan where museums are abundant, I rarely went to museums. But surrounded by all that art, I felt very “artsy.” And now, surrounded by all these mountains, I feel very “campy.” So why, I ask myself, do we actually have to go?
Maybe it’s because I’ve reached an age where I know I’m mortal and I don’t want my last words to be: “I wish we had camped out more.”
Or maybe it’s because even last time, there were moments—the totally dark and silent night, being woken at dawn by two calling crows, a cool, misty morning that smelled of pines—moments of sensing that God is everywhere. And, like the Ba’al Shem Tov, I tend to find him in the woods.
ANIMAL CHATS
One reason I
