Body Integration

When did you feel the most integrated with your body?  Did you have a moment where there wasn't mind and body but simply a cohesive YOU, alive and present?
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I can picture the day clearly. The blue of the sky, cloudless and bright. The sun slanting sharply from the south, even at it's highest in the sky, signaling winter's fast approach. But it wasn't winter yet, despite the sting of late autumn on the air; a cool breeze across the heat of my skin as I climbed the ridge to gaze down on the river raging below.

I'd started out intending only to do my normal two mile walk to the creek and back. But for some reason I'd kept going. Something inside me wasn't ready to turn around. And when I got to the Whatcom falls fork in the trail, I knew why; I needed to see the falls.

I didn't question myself. There were no "what ifs" about the decision. I took no pause at the idea of turning my two mile hike into five, or more, on trails I'd never taken. I felt no fear, no trepidation, no anxiety. I was... I just was. And as I climbed that ridge, I continued to just be. Breath heaving in my throat, flowing across my lips in short sharp gasps, I wound my way into the trees. The drive of the Metallica playing on my iPod set the pace of my feet, pounding against the packed dirt trail. The slow hot burn in my thighs and my shoulders seeping through me, a pleasant pain, telling me I was doing good, hard, worthwhile things...

I passed people. I know I did. I can see them, plain as day, in my mind's eye. Two skinny women in workout tights and fleece vests over skin tight jogging shirts passed me going the opposite direction. They had a dog of some sort, one of those ones that I can't help but think of sewer rats when I see. But, despite knowing they were there, and being able to recall them, it was as if I was the only person on the trail. I was. I just was. For an hour, two, as I climbed further, the path winding along the river, up and up again into the hills, there was nothing except the breath in my lungs and the beat of my feet against the ground.

And then the falls. I heard them before I saw them, the rush of water falling on rock. The sound of nature's raw power. And as I came around a turn, there they were. Tumbling over granite, sheets of snow and glacier melt cascaded down to shallower calmer pools. I was breathless. Not just because of the hike, but because of the sheer intensity of the sight. It was so much more than me... So much more than I ever would be, leaving marks upon the earth to be seen and felt hundreds and thousands of years later. Knowing that if I were to step off into that current, I would be as much a deterrent as a gnat venturing too close to the river's surface. I don't know why I find thoughts like those comforting, why I take solace in the idea that I am just one more insignificant upon the planet, but I do. It wasn't even a conscious thought then. It was, in that moment, a divine truth. Undeniable.

And still, I just was. No argument in my head. No conflicting feelings. No undesired thoughts, or memories. Just me. Breathing hard, leaning against the rail of the bridge across the river, muscles on fire from the 3.5 miles uphill I'd just come, hair and clothing sweat soaked, the beating of my heart indistinguishable from the roar of the falls that filled my ears. I wanted to stay, forever, in that moment, to never lose hold of that feeling, or that lack of fear. And, I suppose, part of me always will.