Ghost Lake. A few days before Solstice. A holy time. A few days retreat before the celebrations with family and friends. .

I breathe in cool air and breathe out, slowly; relax the forehead, soften the eyes, relax the jaw, the tongue, the throat. I swallow. The back of my throat aches. I’m fighting a cold. I breathe in cool air and breathe out, slowly; relax, relax the shoulders, the heart area front, the heart area back. Relax the area between the shoulder blades; ice melting to water, water evaporating to gas. This is helpful. This area is tight. Ice to water, water to gas. As the muscles let go, I remember my flying dreams as a black bird, a raven. Pleasant.

My gaze is in front of me. I hear traffic passing over the bridge. I let my attention open wide. I am here. This is my practice: experience the body, experience nature.

I look up. Mountains rise in front of me; mountains sculpted into triangle peaks and crowns, slabs of rock layers forced sideways and reaching up, and frozen-in-time flat-topped mountains standing guard. Thank you. Thank you.

My body yearns for a connection to the earth. I breathe in cool air and breathe out slowly, relax the torso, the belly, the hips and thighs, the calves. Feel the feet root into the ground.

Lovely. The center of each foot blooms, as if a prairie crocus opens its petals.

Oh, hello, mama.

Snow rests in bowl-shaped mountain hearts, fills veins and arteries of rock crag and canyon and though I can’t see them from here, the banks of the nearby glacial lakes, (Minnewanka) and rivers, The Bow and Ghost Rivers. Just below me, the Bow waters flow east towards Calgary through Ghost Dam, one of several dam projects east of the Rockies, changing the flow of water and, some might say, spirit, in this area of the world. The Ghost River, off to the north from where I stand, ends here at Ghost Lake

I am peace inside though the world is anything but peaceful. Children are harmed, some of them dying in armed conflict, suffering starvation, lack of care, lack of acceptance for the colour of their skin, the way they dress, the pronouns they prefer. Children. Violence. Aggression.

I breathe in the suffering, remembering my own child self– scared, terrified, curled in fetal position. The physical feeling of fear rises in my torso, my heart tightens, the shoulders freeze up. I picture them in my mind’s eye. I notice the urge to shift position, to look away. The grief spills through me. I breathe. I breathe. See. Notice. All lives have value. I breathe out and relax, relax, relax. Peace. Through pain. This is my practice.

“Your suffering matters. Your journey is not over. Travel safe.” I say this to my own small child self, the one who sought refuge in a circle of oak trees near a river, watching dust motes filter through the late afternoon light. Tears come. I repeat my words. “Your suffering matters. Your journey is not over. Travel safe.” This, for the ones in the field of all beings. If they hear me, they may stay awake, they may take the journey with eyes open.

My breath rises and falls, rises and falls. Wind whizzes dry snow over the surface of the lake. A skate sail surfer zigs and zags in the gusts of the wind. Catches an edge. Falls. Stands again.

I pick up my journal. I write.

James Hector, surgeon and hunting expedition leader on the Palliser Expedition in the late 1850s, first wrote about Ghost River, as populated by ghosts. Hector may or may not have been told or understood the nuance, the context, the fullest perspective of ten thousand years of Indigenous engagement with this land. 

I don’t see ghosts. I feel them. I sense them. We communicate. I don’t really know how. I’ve been reading about time. Despite my devotion to comprehension of written text, I can’t explain exactly how, but time doesn’t exist. We have created it. Humans make containers, systems. I’m interested in what’s outside the container.

We, the uninvited guests/settlers/colonists/descendants of the ones who crossed the ocean and made their way west, primarily rely on the accounts of the earliest Europeans who traversed this land. Some of their stories are corroborated by Indigenous land historians. Many European stories leave out pertinent details.

The shared story of the Ghost River tells us of ghosts walking along the river, collecting the skulls of fallen warriors who died in battle. The walking ghosts place the defeated warriors’ skulls on the steep walls of Devil’s Head mountain, a flat-topped mountain. Cultures all over the world say spirits inhabit mountains.

What is real? What is not-supposed-to-be-real? Do spiritual beings inhabit these flat-topped mountains in front of me? How could anyone know the truth? Can any human being have direct experience of the land? 

Actually, I have direct experience with land. I feel it. My whole being feels it. When my physical being is relaxed, when I am open to the present moment as it unfolds, I experience a deep, reverent and physically felt connection to the earth. 

Why? How? I don’t know. In my research on this topic, it appears awareness arises and develops as a consequence of deep suffering. I have been harmed and I’ve harmed. 

Why? How? For 20 years, I have devoted my life to healing wounds, overcoming the conditioning which has driven my behaviour, and living a life through, with, and for love. In my research on this topic, it appears I am not alone in my quest to serve life through love. 

Why? How? Is it possible my very distant ancestors have pulled on a thread of connection and awakened me to learn how to listen? Did my ancestors open their senses to listen to mountains speak? Did my ancestors devote their lives to the earth? Did they experience the separation I am struggling to bridge with my presence, my willingness to write? 

This is what is true for me; this is what is real;

My body is of the earth. 

I am the earth. 

The earth has a voice. 

The earth speaks through me. 

The earth is both inside me and external to me. 

My voice is devoted to the earth.

My body rests in stillness near Ghost Lake, Alberta. 

In breath: Thank you. Thank you.

Out breath: Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.