MOUNTAIN LIFE - Blue Mountains | Spring 2018

76 ML BLUE SPRING 2018 words :: Melanie Chambers illustration :: Dave Barnes For most of my adult life, I sought sport to avoid thinking. Mountain biking, for example. Contemplating life has no place on single-track. I recall an incident last year while ripping through the Don Valley Trails in Toronto—for a few moments, I started thinking about a receipt I forgot to include in my tax file. In seconds, I hit a root at the wrong angle, my handlebars jerked around and I went flying, spread-eagle, over the bars into the muck. But after dusting myself off, I rode on feeling like a badass champion. Post-ride is always gratifying. Friends often recommended meditation, noticing my chronic restlessness. I thought it was a waste of time—too slow, not enough immediate gratification. The Japanese have a name for gardens where nothing grows: karesansui . Contemplation in the absence of growth. Insight from under-stimulation. There’s a thought. And after my mother’s recent death, with all the confusion, grief and turmoil, I found myself needing meditation more than ever. During my weekly yoga session, I often ended the class crying about mom. Somehow after an hour of letting go of all my mind clutter, and an instructor reminding me to clear my head, while in shavasana (“laying down”), I found myself able to grieve. Laying there I would think about something I needed to ask her, to tell her something new, and then it would hit. I cannot . The first time the hot tears rolled down my temples I thought everyone would be looking—but that is the beauty of yoga: No one cares. Everyone else is consumed in their own head. HIKING & LOSS How Trails Can Lead Us Out of Grief WELL NESS