For the second year in a row, the pandemic interfered with my annual ritual of attending a formal silent retreat at a residential meditation center. Last year my substitute was holing up in a hotel room at Longwood Gardens to deepen my mindful photography skills.
This year I felt a strong pull to immerse myself in a remote, natural setting — less manicured, a little wilder, but without going as far as backpacking alone. I don’t pretend to be a hard core camper and have nothing to prove to anyone (especially myself) in this regard.
I found the perfect middle ground in my Tiny Cabin Getaway near Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains. Though absolutely everything about the accommodations seemed tailor-made for my solo meditation retreat wishes, this blog is not about the tiny cabin itself.
This story is about the joke that the Universe played on me shortly after I arrived.
I pulled into my cabin’s parking space early in the evening — about 5:30 or so. Mine was one of about ten tiny cabins sprinkled around a loop surrounded by forest. Although plenty of space separated the sites, my thinking brain was busy critiquing.
In the few short steps between my car and the cabin, a barrage of negative thoughts elbowed their way to the forefront:
“I can still hear the cars from the main road.”
“I’m not as secluded as I wanted to be.”
“This doesn’t feel as wild as I wanted it to be.”
Blah blah blah…
Once inside the cabin, though, the rest of the world fell away. All I could see was the forest.
Instantly delighted with the minimalist, spic and span nest where I would spend the next three nights, I unpacked and felt my body and mind beginning to unwind. I called my family for one last goodbye before turning off my phone and releasing it to the cell phone “lock box”.
I wasn’t hungry enough for dinner, so decided to explore the woods with a short walk before it got dark. A light drizzle had started, so I pulled on my grey rain pants, my moss green rain jacket, and beige wide-brimmed rain hat. (Yes, the colors are important to the rest of the story.)
The first thing I noticed was that it was a little scary stepping into a forest alone in a strange place, even when my minivan was within sight.
I don’t experience true fear in my protected suburban bubble very often, so it was interesting to notice the physical feeling of that emotion while also doing my real time mindfulness check-ins:
What’s actually happening in my mind, my body, and my external environment in this moment?
With each check-in, even after walking face-first into a spider web, the present moment reality was that I was safe.
Meanwhile, the louder thinking that was dominating my headspace had reverted to,
“I can still hear the cars.”
“I can see my van and other cabins in the distance.”
“This isn’t wild enough.”
“I paid money to get away from civilization. This isn’t good enough.”
Blah blah blah…
Just a few minutes into my walk, I saw an inviting looking stone — smooth, flat, and lichen-mottled. My Goldilocks test confirmed it was the perfect height for a comfortable meditation posture.
I closed my eyes and settled into the present moment, tuning into my body, deepening my breath awareness. Shifting my chosen anchor of attention to the sounds around me, I could hear the crickets’ chorus gaining momentum and the sounds of squirrels chasing each other in the leaves.
Yes, I could hear cars in the distance every so often, but there was so much more to notice in the forest, including the sound of tiny rain drops falling on my hat.
And then, another sound.
Sticks cracked somewhere behind me. I knew there were footpaths on this property, but I hadn’t found them yet. I felt immediately self-conscious about the possibility of somebody finding me here meditating on a rock. I stayed with my breath another cycle or two, then heard more sticks cracking.
Keeping my body still (I knew I was well camouflaged so maybe I could hide from people this way), I turned my head slowly to look over my right shoulder.
About 15 yards away stood an adult black bear, nosing around the forest floor. It hadn’t seen me.
I didn’t move a muscle, trying for the life of me to remember what the difference was between instructions for a black bear vs. a grizzly bear encounter. I didn’t remember ever having read, “If meditating on a rock, do X.”
While the racing thoughts about what to “do” filled my head, my body’s alarm system did its job: my heart pounded in my chest, my muscles tensed up, my brain released a flood of adrenaline, my cheeks felt tingly.
Still, I didn’t move, not knowing what would happen if I startled the bear.
The bear stopped snuffling the ground and put its nose up in the air, clearly smelling something foreign. After just a moment of exploratory air sniffing, it turned its head toward me and we locked eyes.
In that moment, we were connected. I could literally sense into our shared experience of, “What the hell are you doing here?” The bear was, of course, much more justified in this feeling than I was.
After just a few seconds, the poor bear turned and ran away, even looking over its shoulder to make sure I wasn’t following it. I felt sad to have frightened the magnificent animal with my mere presence, even while my own body’s fear responses were still activated.
After my friend (a one-way friendship, to be sure) disappeared into the forest, even though I knew from a logical standpoint that I was safe, I sprang from my rock and ran back to my tiny cabin.
Overriding the full sensory experience was the almost palpable feel of the Universe laughing at its joke on me.
“Not wild enough for you, huh?”
If you would like to strengthen your capacity to respond skillfully to life’s challenges, uncertainty, and real or imagined bears, you might be interested in my upcoming invitation-only SIY Adaptive Resilience Series. Contact me if you’d like more information.
