"I Become Part of It", by Kevin Haney

In the midst of the fury, there was calm. Seemingly unperturbed, the spray-covered figure gently and precisely parted the surface with his blade, like a master surgeon carving flesh. The paddle entered and exited the water without making the slightest disturbance, looking more like a natural extension of the paddler's arm than an artificial tool to be manipulated. The fragile-looking craft, seemingly held just above the maelstrom by some supernatural protecting force, responded to the subtle influence and was guided on exactly the course it needed to be on to thread itself between the huge boulders and standing waves. In a few more breathtaking seconds, it shot out into the quiet glide below the rapids and suddenly, it was over.

It was one of those rare summer days, when the usually oppressive Virginia heat had for a time given way to an invigorating coolness that reminded one of spring. Remnants of the pre-dawn fog drifted up from the river surface in tenuous wisps, mixing with the mists born of the white water, adding an aura of otherworldliness to the scene. I was perched on a high cliff overlooking Great Falls, watching a group of kayakers work the rapids of the Potomac River far below. Distant kin to the water strider, their surface maneuverings were a magnification of the classic strider pattern of shooting down the main flow of the rapids, catching an eddy into a quiet backwater, and furiously paddling back upstream along the bank to do it all over again. And, like the strider, it seemed that for the kayakers it was not so much the destination, but the going that really mattered.

A few of the kayakers, the really good ones, stood apart from the rest by their ability to make what they were doing look effortless. One of them, in a breathtaking maneuver that made the front end of his kayak go straight down into the water so that the entire craft was vertical, did a double pirouette on the nose of his craft and made it look graceful and easy, like a master ballroom dancer working his magic across a watery dance floor.

Then it struck me-that was just what the kayakers were doing-dancing on water. A water dance, a physical exhibition every bit as practiced and as graceful as the one performed by the ballroom dancer. It was the same kind of grace that I had seen once before, when I watched with awe an aging master of the martial arts performing his solo forms in an empty, dimly lit studio. It was a grace that comes from being totally immersed in the actions you are engaged in, a grace that comes not from the logical thinking mind, but from somewhere deeper. It was a grace that comes with having a completely integrated mind and body, with being one with what you are doing, completely a part of the natural flow of events.

It seems to me that this grace, this personal integration of the mind and body, can be viewed not only as an end in itself, but as evidence of an even higher state of being. A student of the spiritual history of our species eventually notices a common thread running through most spiritual and religious traditions. It's not just an interesting historical coincidence that cultures as vastly different and as widely separated as ancient China, imperial Japan, and many Native American nations have viewed the integration of the mind and body as a gateway to an even greater state of integration, the integration of the individual with the universe itself.

Wise men in these ancient cultures, whenever they were in need of meaning or direction in their lives, would embark upon an outward journey, which they viewed as valuable mainly as the setting for another kind of journey, an inward journey. This dual journey of the body and spirit took many forms, but almost inevitably at its center was a solitary wilderness sojourn that served as a prelude to deep insight and personal vision. So, the Native American went alone into the woods questing for his vision, the Zen monk went into the mountains in search of his enlightenment, the Christian ascetic went into the desert in search of his God. Using various physical, meditative, breathing, and prayer techniques, they would attempt to communicate directly with their God. If they were of the proper sort, they would return with a vision or a message that would provide them meaning, bringing together the disparate parts of their lives into a cohesive whole. The pattern would have become clear. They would have become fully integrated human beings.

I would put it down that this integrated state of being is reserved not only for the spiritually elite or those with special abilities, but may be approached in ways in which we all can participate. It could be as simple as sitting beneath a tree for an entire day until you feel totally connected, an integral part of the myriad natural processes taking place all around you. It could mean practicing low-impact camping, not to the point where you sleep standing up because you don't want to damage the ground, but just leaving no permanent scars on the land, not only for the sake of the people that come after you, but also out of a deep respect for the land itself. It could mean looking at that approaching storm front not with trepidation, but as a welcome opportunity to experience a different facet of nature by sitting out unprotected in the midst of the storm and observing its life and death firsthand, rather than taking shelter and insulating yourself from the one of the grandest natural processes of all. It could also mean leaving the trail occasionally to venture cross country where few choose to go and in the process, discovering, in the heart of the wilderness, your own true heart.

It would seem, then, that it's not really important exactly what you do, but your attitude that is key. The goal is to dissolve the boundaries that usually separate us from the natural world, to feel so much a part of things that there is no "I," there is no "wilderness," there is only the all inclusive process-what the ancient Chinese called "the Tao," what Native Americans call "the spirit that moves in all things," and what we shallowly refer to as "Nature." Colin Fletcher described the experience well when he said that "At such moments you do not 'commune with nature' (a trite phrase that seems to classify nature as something outside and separate from us humans). At such moments you know, deep down in your fabric, with a certainty far more secure than intellect can offer, that you are a part of the web of life, and that the web of life is a part of the rock and air and water of pre-life. You know the wholeness of the universe, the great unity." And when you come to this knowledge, you also know that, in the final analysis, there is no discovery apart from self-discovery.

The realization of all of this is not a piece of mere academic knowledge that can come from a simple effort of intelligence. It's a way of experiencing the world and everything in it that must of necessity integrate itself into your whole being. Reason can't take you all of the way there-only with feeling can you complete the journey. You must feel the connections that exist between you and everything else in the world, the invisible web that binds everything together. As some Native Americans would say, you have to have an experience that makes you feel the earth.

This is a very different state of being than just appreciating nature, although that is a first step. When you go out into the wild to "appreciate" the natural world, you usually see that world as being something separate from yourself. You are a distinct being, placed in the natural world, yet really standing outside that world looking in, so to speak. It is only when you can begin to see yourself as being a part of the greater whole, no more or no less important than any other part, can you experience the feeling I'm talking about-the feeling of being a totally connected, integral part of the world, of everything that exists. It is at bottom a spiritual feeling and, unfortunately, it is not a feeling that is commonplace, or one that comes easily.

And it's not just a matter of your own personal or spiritual fulfillment-it has become a matter of survival for our civilization as a whole. Separating oneself from the natural world almost inevitably leads to the idea that man occupies a privileged position in the hierarchy of things and that, because of his intellect or some other rationalized criteria, he is rightfully above the plants, birds, beasts and other creatures with which we share the planet. This, in turn, leads to the idea that man has dominion over the natural world, that it was created for his use and that it is his to do with as he sees fit. And, if modern civilization has taught us nothing else, it should have by now taught us the enormous potential for destruction that lurks within this arrogant idea.

A very wise Native American named Chief Seattle once spoke eloquently on the subject. Long before the inception of the modern environmental consciousness he said, in words befitting a great poet, "The earth does not belong to man; man belongs to the earth. This we know. Man did not weave the web of life; he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself. All things are connected. Whatever befalls the earth befalls the children of the earth." If mankind is to survive much longer on this planet, we must each learn the true meaning of those words, must feel them in our hearts, and must act in accordance with their spirit. If we do not as a species learn the lesson Chief Seattle spoke of, if we do not become true "children of the earth," our days may be as numbered as those of many of the creatures we are pushing toward the abyss of eternal extinction.

Sitting there high above the river that mid-summer morning, watching the kayakers dance on the water far below, all of this seemed to become clear to me, all of the ideas seemed suddenly to connect. The kayakers know the lesson, I thought, know that they are part of the web. They do not seek to "conquer" the river. They only seek to blend with its life and its power in harmonious coexistence, to "become part of it," to use the Navajo phrase.

The kayakers have met the challenge of the river and embraced the philosophy of the web. Their challenge is also our challenge. Until we all can apply that philosophy on both a personal and a societal level, we are in the same dangerous and vulnerable position as the inexperienced kayaker who, overreaching his capabilities in a moment of arrogance, shoots out over the edge of a great waterfall into empty space and hangs there for an instant, not knowing if he will land safely or perish in the tumult below.

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