Life is more skillfully lived when one sails a boat rather than rowing it.
– Alan Watts
Not only had I set sail, but I had practically chucked my oars into the ocean. After nearly giving up on the idea of a trip to Yosemite, the inspiration to buy train tickets came from a half-joking observation of the day we'd be arriving: Christmas. Surely the Yosemite Valley Chapel would be open and offering shelter on the day of giving. Aamod and I high-fived over the seemingly brilliant idea. I knew that improvised travelling was fun, but this was pushing past that and into the territory of chance—arriving at night in an unknown place, no tent, negative temperatures, and wilderness. Regardless, we were committed.
We departed the following day, wishing everyone merry Christmas while quenching our thirst for adventure. A train took us from Berkeley to Merced where we transferred onto a bus and found ourselves coasting into the Sierras. The comforting lights of civilization were far behind, and the only indication of anything outside the bus was the moon hanging in my window. A couple of hours later, snow appeared and the forest became visible. The bus had slowed, accepting its vulnerability while reminding us of ours.
Before long, the bus had arrived and my unease was swept away by the mountain air. With a flimsy valley map in hand, we set off for the Chapel. As we walked down a snow covered path, the evergreens cleared to reveal immense granite cliffs and a starry sky. The full moon had exposed Yosemite's landscape with unexpected clarity. I couldn't help but mumble “wow” over and over again. It was a humbling experience, as if we were watching a bear sleep in majestic silence—the king of the land performing a tender act.
It took some time for my impulsively overactive mind to calm down. Attempts to photograph the beauty were futile—in the darkness, my camera stood no chance of competing with the human eye. The failed pictures acted as a gentle reminder to let go. At that moment, a Japanese proverb came to mind, “When in the mountains, one forgets to count the days.” Nodding to myself, I slipped into a state of peace and let the concept of time drift away.
The winds of life guided us better than I could have ever hoped. The Chapel welcomed us with warmth and silence, its yellow light contrasting with the bluish grey of the surrounding cliffs. The simple construction was nestled in snow-covered trees, belonging where it stood as if it were as old as the forest itself.
Aamod led the way as we cautiously entered the Chapel's dimly lit hall. Neither of us spoke a word. The interior was as simple as one would expect from a small Chapel in the mountains, but it inspired respect worthy of a grand cathedral. A grand piano lay in the corner, tempting me to break silence with its sound. I came up with the barely justified reason of verifying that we were alone and began playing. Laughter and music resonated in our newfound home—a home that in all its simplicity, felt decidedly superior to anything else on the planet.
And so the day came to an end; we lowered our sails and settled into our sleeping bags. Perhaps oars shouldn't be thrown into the ocean, but once in awhile, there's nothing better than forgetting they exist and bracing for the wind.
Before long, the bus had arrived and my unease was swept away by the mountain air. With a flimsy valley map in hand, we set off for the Chapel. As we walked down a snow covered path, the evergreens cleared to reveal immense granite cliffs and a starry sky. The full moon had exposed Yosemite's landscape with unexpected clarity. I couldn't help but mumble “wow” over and over again. It was a humbling experience, as if we were watching a bear sleep in majestic silence—the king of the land performing a tender act.
It took some time for my impulsively overactive mind to calm down. Attempts to photograph the beauty were futile—in the darkness, my camera stood no chance of competing with the human eye. The failed pictures acted as a gentle reminder to let go. At that moment, a Japanese proverb came to mind, “When in the mountains, one forgets to count the days.” Nodding to myself, I slipped into a state of peace and let the concept of time drift away.
The winds of life guided us better than I could have ever hoped. The Chapel welcomed us with warmth and silence, its yellow light contrasting with the bluish grey of the surrounding cliffs. The simple construction was nestled in snow-covered trees, belonging where it stood as if it were as old as the forest itself.
Aamod led the way as we cautiously entered the Chapel's dimly lit hall. Neither of us spoke a word. The interior was as simple as one would expect from a small Chapel in the mountains, but it inspired respect worthy of a grand cathedral. A grand piano lay in the corner, tempting me to break silence with its sound. I came up with the barely justified reason of verifying that we were alone and began playing. Laughter and music resonated in our newfound home—a home that in all its simplicity, felt decidedly superior to anything else on the planet.
And so the day came to an end; we lowered our sails and settled into our sleeping bags. Perhaps oars shouldn't be thrown into the ocean, but once in awhile, there's nothing better than forgetting they exist and bracing for the wind.
