The science* on gratitude is hopeful:

• Many studies over the past decade or so point to conscious gratitude resulting in greater happiness and less depression.
  
• Cardiac patients that were grateful reported better sleep, less fatigue, and lower levels of cellular inflammation.
  
• A shift to gratitude can shift our attention from negative thoughts and emotions.
• Allows for more resiliency after traumatic events.
• Encourages the development of other virtues such as patience, humility, and wisdom.
• Inspires people to be more generous, kind, and helpful.
• Strengthens relationships.
• May help employees work more effectively, feel more satisfied, and act more helpfully and respectfully toward their coworkers.

*Taken from The Science of Gratitude: A white paper prepared for the John Templeton Foundation by the Greater Good Science Center at UC Berkeley.

As with all the benefits from our mindfulness and loving kindness practices, practicing when things are smooth and easy going helps embed them in our minds more easily and readily, but what happens when things are challenging?

When we are in fight/flight/freeze response, it is much more difficult to practice these beneficial behaviors. Over time, this can mean a diminishing of our capacity to respond lovingly  and with care.

Here are four key factors that can help us shift out of fear, anger, anxiety and reconnect to the felt sense of gratitude goodness:

1. Create a sense of safety. Connecting to the safety of this moment through a simple mindfulness exercise that grounds our attention in the body and our immediate surroundings.
2. Open the heart to the goodness of the moment. Orient toward any sensations or sense experiences (like pleasant sounds, sights, fragrances) that you can experience directly in the present moment. Explore and linger with the felt sense in the body.
3. Feel 'thank you'. Purposefully orient toward inwardly saying thank you and focus on the felt sense in the body. You can use words to support you, but keep 90% of your attention on the felt sense of the experience of thank you. Notice if there's softening, opening, warmth or a smile that develops over time.
4. Extend gratitude. Once the felt sense of gratitude is established for the goodness in the present moment, you can then orient that gratitude toward recent events, people and places that you hold dear. Once off the cushion, allow this gratitude to take form in some meaningful way. If it's toward a person, send a card or give a call with the essence of the gratitude included. If it's toward a special place, like a forest, offer a gesture that supports its wellness in addition to feeling the gratitude. Maybe picking up litter, or planting a new tree or taking action with legislatures to protect it.

This practice not only shifts your current experience, it creates a new habit and orientation in the brain that makes it more readily accessible during difficult times and non-stressful times--it becomes a protective factor. It also ripples out to all you come into contact with following the experience. And during these challenging times, we can all use a bit more warmth, caring and connection.

Here's a guided version of this meditation from the Mindful and Intentional Living Facebook page.

Learning my capacities, seeing how human life is the same as those animals and vegetation we live amongst, and the shifting and changing weather patterns and seasonal cycles all help me learn myself. And really, with the precious nature of a human life, that's one of the greatest offers of respect and I can give--to myself and the world--is to learn myself. I'm hear partly to learn myself through nature and it's much easier when I move at the speed of wakefulness.

I'm curious--what have you learned about yourself through nature?

Before I settled into camp at Ruby Lake, the night of catastrophizing where I became determined to bring appreciation rather than fearful anxiety to what could have been my last night alive, I sat near the lake and prayed, is this the right spot for me to stay tonight?

The lull of the late afternoon ascended as the sun descended behind the craggy peaks of Ruby Lake. The stillness of water, save the champagne like glistening of sunlight dancing across the small expanse, sedated the day's activities. Birds flitted here and thereto find their last nuggets of seeds and bugs for their evening nourishment. The dragonflies, jokering around in two- and threesomes, swerved in and around me at water's edge, occasionally hovering briefly at eye level, as rainbow glistening wings reflected splashes of sun rays. A chipmunk came next to me, perching on a rock overlooking the lake while munching on a pine cone.

Paying me no never mind, I wondered if it had the same awe I did this time of day? Did it choose this specific spot for the view at sunset? Or was it just a convenient relatively flat place where which to eat dinner?

 This is what triggered the appreciation. What if my last moments are to be at Ruby Lake bearing witness to the aliveness and beauty that was only available to this human in this moment? What if my last moments were to be the witnessing with all my senses the end of day calm, save the lone bird screeching from the far side of the lake where a relatively small slab of snow remained and every once in a while a piece of scrabble fell a bit closer to it's final destination at the bottom of the lake? Or observing the last few breaches of a small trout breaking the silence of both sound and smoothness on the clear, flat surface? What if even the distant call of winds settling to a whisper are never cognizantly held by anyone except me in my final moments?

What is important here?

Wouldn't I prefer to spend these last precious moments in admiration and wonder? Who, if not me, will shower this moment with appreciation? How much of the unfolding of existence goes unwitnessed? Unappreciated?

How much of my life goes by without my awareness? Without my perceiving it? Without my acknowledgement? Without my admiration? Because I'm caught up in spacing out, concern, worry, regret, fear, planning?

Awareness sharpened, I set my intention to be a deserving witness to the unimaginable beauty unfolding around me--the solo human witness for each irreplaceable flowering miracle I was fortunate enough to be in the presence of at this pool of wonder. Ruby Lake was a gem of sacred stillness.

I awoke the next morning to the sounds of early morning hikers and a renewed spirit, sharing the solitude of the morning with the local creatures, recognizing the auspiciousness of every given moment and place. I took a leisure day, backtracking to Thousand Island Lake for a dip and ending up at another gem of a lake close by for the night.

After preparing for an incoming thunderstorm, the primary evening activity at Garnet Lake, another gem along the John Muir Trail, included reflecting on what I appreciated about my partner, Jim. Each item--how he knows the authentic me and honestly loves me; his quick, keen wit and sense of humor; his appreciation for good music; his smooth jazz saxophone playing; his soft supportive touch; just to name a few--brought a warmth and smile to my heart and deepened the love and appreciation I have for him.

How much do I miss and take for granted when I stay too busy to be contemplative and appreciative? What happens to my experience when I incline my mind toward appreciation?

Jim and I share an evening ritual of asking reflective questions for the day:

• What did I learn?
• What am I grateful for?
• What do I appreciate about you?
• What am I looking forward to tomorrow?

I missed that so far on the trail and started writing (then texting to Jim whether I had reception or not) my answers each evening. Each time, a crisp, clear awareness would arise and a goodness would fill my heart.

Being appreciative changed my experience--from fear to wonder and awe--and the more I did it the more my appreciation and joy deepened. And the beauty is that this is something I can choose--albeit sometimes quite difficult when I'm ensconced in a bout of anxiety and fear. But each time I choose it, it becomes more of a habit and easier and easier to call upon, particularly when I feel the first flutters of fear or anxiety arising. And

I can support creating this habit by practicing appreciation when I'm in a calm state, which then is easier to embed and create neural pathways in the brain. Then the habit becomes more readily accessible when I get triggered.

What are you appreciative of today? What do you notice when you bring appreciation to whatever is in your environment?

 The Fish Creek trail passes through the John Muir and Ansel Adams Wilderness areas. It's some of the most iconic scenery in the Sierras. I chose to backtrack to Red's Meadows on this trail rather than complete Section III of the JMT, as that section would drop me some five hours from my car with no public transportation options. So I opted for what I thought was going to be a mild path of glades and meadows, but it turned out to be a glorious forested trail at times replete with clear, crisp rushing water tumbling over large granite boulders and steep canyon walls of various shades of gray.

I took a snack break at the bottom of a small waterfall and watched the waving tails of the trout steady their position in a deep pool. At just the right moment, they would pop up out of the water, gulping an unsuspecting bug touching the surface.

As the canyon deepened and the sound of flowing water got louder, I could no longer hear anything in my surroundings but it. My fear kicked in--a bear or a cougar would not be able to hear me coming and I wasn't sure they would feel me either. And I certainly couldn't hear them.

At first I casually clacked together my walking sticks every now and again, but soon I added the sound of my voice in song and chant. Eventually, I let loose my small tin shovel so it could rattle against other metal objects on the pack with each step I took.

My next break was at a large pack animal camp site. The sound of the creek, which could be considered a river in our parts, was still loud enough to have me on high alert for movement. It was hard to relax.

A short distance back on the trail I pulled out the map to orient me and discovered that I should have crossed the creek somewhere back near the campsite. I had already had a situation where I missed the trail turn and instead veered off down the hill a mile or so out of the way.

This crossing made sense. There was a massive log across the creek near the campsite with what looked like a pack animal crossing next to it. On the JMT, the logs at crossings  usually had shorn tops with two tied together to make a nice sturdy bridge. I had already noticed that the Fish Creek Trail didn't afford the same quality of markings and upkeep, so wasn't surprised to have a solo log, albeit massive and unshorn, as the bridge.

Funny, though, I didn't remember seeing a sign. So, I backtrack a bit and eventually determine that the huge log across the creek must lead to the trail on the other side. I certainly wasn't going to take the chance of going  the wrong direction this time.

I tighten my pack and traverse the fallen tree to an opening, but no apparent trail. I see from the GPS tracker on my phone the trail was just a ways up ahead and so I cut through the forest knowing I would intersect it in about 50-75 feet.

The hovering and accuracy of a GPS tracker can be affected by reception and so when I didn't find the trail immediately, I just kept trekking in the general direction, knowing I would eventually meet it. I soon came upon another small creek and crossed along and up toward the canyon wall. This tributary was on the map, but still no trail.

Well shoot. Where is this trail?

Determined, I continue to scramble through brush and trees until I eventually came to a cairn--a human-made stack of rocks typically indicating a direction or path.

Okay. It's here somewhere.

I first went north from the cairn on a path and quickly hit a wall of brush and boulder so thick there was no way to penetrate it. Beyond the wall was yet another small side stream to Fish Creek. Definitely not the trail here.

Next, I headed west on a path toward Fish Creek and soon found myself in a somewhat open ground area surrounded by thickets of gray-green shrubbery with smallish trees keeping the area in the shade. There were numerous piles of scat--some clearly bear, given size and consistency, and others that could be coyote or cougar.

A bear den? Not a good sign.

It was easy to tell that the scat was not immediately fresh, like that I saw at Red's Meadow days earlier, but it was this season's and fresh enough to put me on alert knowing I needed to get out of the area as quick as possible.

Seeing no clear path out, I backtracked to the cairn and continued on logically going in each of the remaining directions to find the trail.

The sun followed its mid-summer trajectory to straight overhead. I was now hot, frustrated and getting nervous. Since I had scrambled off trail and bushwhacked through dense brush and forested areas, I discovered I couldn't find my way back to the fallen log by land. I was traipsing through stinging nettle, hurdling my now 25-pound pack over boulders and enormous fallen trees, sometimes to get a clearer view and others just to get somewhere. And yet I kept ending up back at the cairn.

Frustrated, concerned and shaky at about an hour in to this mess, I began to realize what a potential predicament I was in and emotionally gave up. I had to admit I was lost and couldn't find my way.

Damn! This was stupid!

I quickly saw the futility of beating myself up and thought to look for the phone number of the nearest ranger station to see if they could talk me through to the trail. My map and GPS tracker kept showing it nearby. I kept crossing back and forth over it, according to it, certainly, I hoped, they could help me orient.

There wasn't enough reception to use the internet.

Shoot!

I thought to call Jim and have him look it up. I dial. Silence. Not enough reception for even a phone call.

Shit!

Not only was I not going to find this trail--I was lost, for sure--but I was also running low on water and my efforts to get back to the creek were thwarted in each direction by the dense walls of bushes.

Should I make the 911 emergency call?

That seems like such a waste of resources; I really wasn't ready for that.

Okay, it's time to get serious about this. Stop trying to find the trail and get back to where I crossed the stream.

I headed back into the bear den area toward Fish Creek when something shiny caught my eye--it was a large and sturdy carabiner. My mind reeled with horrorific scenarios of how that ended up here.

I have GOT to get OUT of here!!!

I had started chanting help. help, help, on a steady beacon-like basis sometime after the first encounter with the scat. My hope was that a fellow traveler would hear me and pull me toward the trail with their voice. The chant got louder as my hope waned and softened when determination returned.

My legs, alive and tingling from nettle, pushed through thickets of bushes until finally I reached a large driftwood filled beach. I dropped my pack, took off my boots, stood in the cool running stream, filtered some drinking water and proceeded to eat lunch and take a break.

My adrenaline was high, but I was tired. Now, at least, I knew I had plenty of food and water. But I also knew I wasn't out of the woods just yet. I had to get back to where I crossed the river and figure out where I went wrong.

So, off-trail hiking is a thing. In fact, I met a young graduate student at Red's Meadow who was trekking the Sierra High Route. (Never mind that he ended up spending the night in the shower room at Red's because a bear came up to his picnic table while strewn with his resupply food and it was the closest most protected place he could scramble with some food and his backpack. As the bear sniffed under the door, a worker from Red's encouraged him to just stay put for the night. He pulled out his sleep pad and bag and hunkered down.) This form of hiking takes every ounce of ingenuity, strength and agility to be successful and this was my indoctrination. It was a far cry from trail hiking!

I put on my hiking sandals, storing my boots on the pack and tucked my phone in a  plastic bag as I forged upstream on Fish Creek a good quarter-mile or so. Sometimes it was trudging mid-stream in thigh high water, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, once getting my foot caught between two large rocks and having to wrestle it loose. Other times it was hoisting myself and pack over an 8+ foot diameter log, of which one time I almost impaled myself on a broken branch because the pack got caught between two large branches almost pulling me over. I caught myself just as the pack weight pulled me near the sharp protrusion. Thank goodness for my yoga practice that keeps me flexible, for the strength in my legs and for the adrenaline that kept me stronger than normal!

After a few near mishaps, the gravity of the situation hit me again. I was in the middle of nowhere and an injury now could eventually be fatal. My attention honed and heightened, I became aware of every movement, of every option.

Once I took to traversing the creek, every now and again, when it was easy going, I would wake up to the freshness and beauty and experience a moment of pleasure. It was refreshing. In general, this was too serious of a situation for relaxed pleasure. (I can now tell these situations because after, there's no photos!)

I finally found my way back to the original crossing spot some two and a half hours later. I went a bit back up trail to see where I had missed the actual crossing or sign and nothing was there.

I decided then that I didn't care if I had lost the trail. I was going to continue straight on the main well traveled trail regardless of where it took me. I had wasted 2 1/2 hours of my energy and day and I certainly wasn't going to make it back to Red's. I would figure things out when the time came.

The prickly sensation of the stinging nettled lingered and made it difficult to rest. I started to think, where did I go wrong? Was I too ambitious? Too determined to the point of being stubborn? When should I have turned around?

A half-mile or so up the flat forested trail, I turned the corner. Hmmm...

There stood a perfectly built and new looking bridge crossing the creek. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Two men greeted me with a warning that I may want to rest up and stock up on water, as the next mile or so stretch was steep switchbacks up the canyon wall. I laughed and thanked them as I continued riding on the adrenaline wave.

That evening, as I lay exhausted in the midst of the inevitable energy crash, I reflected how my mind and body rose to the occasion. I never would have pushed myself to experience those greater capacities. I never would have noticed and experienced these capabilities had this situation not pulled them out of me. It was an interesting reflection and brought to mind a passage in this essay by Shawnte Salabert reflecting  about the why of engaging in off trail hiking:

"...one leaves the boundaries of a trail in order to push their own. To engage well-practiced skills of navigation and route-finding. To gain perspective and feel small in wide, open spaces. To be fully present and immersed in the landscape. To contemplate big questions in places that have been impacted by little more than footprints. To go deeper, if you will." 

To the loving awareness that had been lost since the first wrong turn, I could understand this deeper calling and gift. But, doing it intentionally would be more apropos than coming across it haphazardly as I did!

Would I try it in the future?

Multi-day solo backpacking has been the challenge that I've taken on these past few years to help me learn, use and grow this aptitude. For now, I think sticking to the trails is enough.

There is a fine line between bravery and stupidity and that line isn't usually known until the outcome of the situation is fully known. In hindsight, for this time of being lost in bear territory, it seems a bit of both.

"They really are intimidated by humans," Sally said as we sat around the picnic table at Red's Meadow Resort eating our highly prized Red's burgers. "Just scare them off with loud sounds and act big."

I'd heard this numerous times along the trail. Brown bears--those bears we find in California--aren't interested in humans, but are interested in our food. How many evenings before bed since learning how to backpack three years ago were spent painstakingly going through the ritual of making sure that "everything that goes in or on your body" is safely sealed into a bear-proof canister and stashed some distance from the tent?

So many hours spent fretting about having residual mint fragrance from toothpaste lingering in my mouth or the scent of lotion on my dry cracked hands. Was it enough to be detected? Images of the young camper who awoke to a crunching sound--which turned out to be the sound of his own head being munched by a bear--repeatedly forced their way into my head. I shuddered every time.

 I was halfway through my adventure when I arrived at my resupply spot, Red's Meadow. Surveying the campground, I opted against the backpacker's campsites, as they were crowded and I heard loud music from a nearby site encroaching.

I eventually tucked my tent next to a large Douglas Fir tree at another site, ensuring afternoon shade. It was the first campsite adjacent to the trail that ran between the campground and the resort. Beyond that trail lay wilderness and the view from my tent a lush expanse of brilliant green meadow.

My neighbors were a newly retired first grade teacher, her husband and their two adult grandsons. "We've been coming every summer for over twenty years now. There's about six active bears in the campgrounds this year," explained Sheila. "They make their rounds around dusk foraging through untended ice chests, BBQs and unlocked garbage cans. Lots of first time campers this year who don't seem bear smart!"

I  stashed my whole backpack in the large bear locker assigned to my site. Why take the chance when you have the luxury of a big secure space?

Evening came and I sauntered up to the hot spring pool behind the old bath house. A group of three trekkers--Jacob, Steph and Tim--arrived and I perked up as the clamoring of banging pots and honking car horns moved through the campground. The bears' evening rounds were underway.

The spring was hot--too hot to submerge in without cooling it down a bit. There was an abandoned pipe that used to feed the individual bath rooms, each with a tub, shower and hooks. I splashed the water high in the air as Ted, a car camper that fell in love with Red's Meadow many years before, shared his bear experience from the night before that included the bear leisurely exploring his large, two bedroom tent while he looked on. Needless to say, he would be sleeping in his SUV for the rest of his stay this year.

The heat from the clear, light blue water slowly seeped to the core of my body, melting tightness and soreness from every muscle, as if by magic. A perfect way to end my first seven days of hiking and ready me for a good night's sleep.

Thunder rips through my dream and I'm pulled out of a dreamy deep sleep. Earth trembles as a large creature gallops past just feet behind my head.

Boom-rumble! Boom-rumble! Boom-rumble!

My instincts knew and I bolted upright in a panic--something very big is galloping straight toward me! Heart racing and breath shallow--an earthquake was releasing it's thunder all around me! But it was in rhythm. "Oh shit!"

It was mere feet from my head! "Holy shit!"

The earthshaking galloping continued past my tent and off into the forest. Boom-rumble! Boom-rumble! Boom-rumble! I hear breath pass by.

Through the lightly opaque tent screen, my body in panic, I see the fuzzy outline of a large figure slowly lumbering through the edge of the meadow, not 15 feet from my feet. It took off in a gallop returning the ground to tumultuous, but rhythmic trembling.

Boom-rumble! Boom-rumble!

"A....a....a...bbbbear," I managed to stutter out. "A....bear," I said a bit louder the second time  as I reached for my glasses and checked the time. It was 5:00 AM.

"Katy? Katy? Katy, did you hear that?" I offered in a low voice to the fellow backpacker who shared my campsite that night. No response. How could anyone not have heard or felt them go by??!?

I'm always amazed at how quickly the mind (and body?) can assess a situation. The bears were gone. There was no need to wake anyone that wasn't already shaking in their boots as I was. But, but, but.....

I was anointed.

Every element of my being analyzed and assessed what just happened and within seconds concluded there was no way in hell I could EVER intimidate and scare off these massive, though gallant and glorious beings. "They must weigh close to a ton," I surmised.

Ancient knowings deep inside and rarely stirred could assess by the very sound and breadth and depth of earth that moved as the bears galloped by that there was ABSOLUTELY NO WAY IN HELL I could scare off these magnificent and majestic beings.

The mind had made them conceptually big. The direct experience brought depth and dimension to my knowing that could never be touched by concept.

Awe began to take over my experience.

I was anointed to that which is bear.

I was humbled. Deeply, deeply humbled. Still am.

JoAnn Saccato, MA is a mindfulness teacher specializing in disaster and trauma resiliency and learning the self through nature. As a mindfulness-based life coach, she helps others align heart, mind and body with their deepest values and intentions to live a deeply authentic life they can truly love.

JoAnn lives in the hills of Northern California and travels the world over with her curiosity and teachings. She is the author of Companioning the Sacred Journey: A Guide to Creating a Compassionate Container for Your Spiritual Practice and Mindful and Intentional Living: A Path to Peace, Clarity and Freedom.

As I mentioned in the previous blog post, the first few days on the trail I experienced an inordinate amount of fear and anxiety, particularly in the evenings and throughout the night. The fear was so fierce that I wasn't able to enjoy any of my time. I was reeling in a flood of anxiousness and reactivity. My desperation lead to exhaustion night after night.

One night in particular my catastrophizing mind thoroughly convinced me that I was doomed--that this would be my last night alive. (This was before I worked with the Just Five Breaths practice.)  I was certain that I would become the meal of a wild animal!

 
At some point I woke  to realize: If this is my last night on earth, do I really want my final thoughts to be of fright and dread? 

No.

No!

If something was going to happen, if something or someone was going to 'get me' and ravage my body, I wasn't going to let it get the preciousness of my final thoughts and attention--the very inclination of my mind. No. If anything, on my deathbed, I want to be in appreciation of this magnificent life I've had the grace to live.

My choice became clear: let catastrophizing thoughts continue to overwhelm me until I was frozen solid in fear or actively engage in an appreciation and gratitude practice.

I chose the latter, because really, swimming in fear and the soup of chemicals that circulate through the body from anxiousness and nervousness would most likely not change the outcome of a harrowing middle-of-the-night encounter with an attacker. I would be in fight/flight/freeze, which could potentially help me fend off an attacker, but really unlikely if it were a bear, cougar or a determined violent human, particularly one with a weapon. And besides, the chemicals would leave me tasting acrid and yucky to a bear or cougar. And if I were to become a meal for one of my mammal brethren, I would want to be a good tasting one. (<<==Can you tell I had plenty of time in the evenings to think these things through?!)

But, really, as I thought about it, for my final moments, I'd prefer to be in wakefulness and love. The more I thought about it, the more I got angry--at myself, at the situation, at the nature of the mind.

I soon made the choice with a growing determination--Dammit, I'm not going to give up these final moments to fear!

With traveling being one of the things I enjoy most in life, I turned to writing a list of the places I've been. Let's see....Mexico City, Acapulco, Chicago, New York (x2), Cuzsco and Machu Picchu in Peru, Hawaii (x2), and on...

Within a short period of time, my mind was filled with delightful memories of places and cultures and situations. Hmmm.....China, India, England, Peru, Cambodia, Nepal, and of course, Italy.

What a gift! I hadn't realized cumulatively how much I'd traveled and the cultures I've been graced to experience.

Then there was the beauty of natural features on the planet--Zion, the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, the Tetons, and of course, Yosemite. My goodness, the preciousness of this earth! The unfathomable beauty in rock formations, water, plants and trees. It's breathtaking--astounding. And I've got to experience so much of it!

This.

These precious moments of reflection of the goodness in my life. If my life ended tonight, I thought, then holding gratitude for what I cherish from my experiences was the best way I could think of to incline my mind. There's been enough goodness in my life to last many lifetimes! And I had barely touched on the relationships involved in the travel. My goodness, that list would go on and on!

It didn't take long for the chemical balance in the body to shift to pleasantness and joy--if it ended that night, at least I was basking in the gratitude and joy from reflection of meaningful and treasured memories.

Each time I awoke that night--and it was many times until the wee hours of the morning--I went back to recalling events and people I could be grateful for in life. And, of course, I survived. I survived with a few less precious moments of my remaining life spent in wasteful fear. In fact, it help shift and expand my capacity to bring present moment appreciation to the experience unfolding before me as it unfolded. (It also helped prepare me for the actual encounters I had with bears, which is a story for a future post!)

So this is a strategy that can be turned to again and again when the mind kicks into catastrophizing. And one with innumerable benefits!

How about you? If you were to undertake this practice and reflect on the most meaningful experiences from your life, what would those be? I'd love to see you post some here and then notice what happens in your experience as you do.

JoAnn Saccato, MA is a mindfulness teacher specializing in disaster and trauma resiliency and learning the self through nature. As a mindfulness-based life coach, she helps others align heart, mind and body with their deepest values and intentions to live a deeply authentic life they can truly love.

JoAnn lives in the hills of Northern California and travels the world over with her curiosity and teachings. She is the author of Companioning the Sacred Journey: A Guide to Creating a Compassionate Container for Your Spiritual Practice and Mindful and Intentional Living: A Path to Peace, Clarity and Freedom.

The first few days on the trail are usually filled with some anxiety and many questions: Did I remember to pack the soap? Is there enough food? What about bear activity? What am I supposed to do if I encounter a bear? Do I look them in the eye? Act big and try to scare them off?  Did I bring too many pairs of socks? And on. I fiddle with equipment and work to remember where to put things that make the most logical and efficient sense.

For some reason this year, my mind was super activated and super scared. This was my first time solo for 14 days and needing to resupply along the route. My legs were also super antsy at night after hiking five or so miles with 35 pounds on my back. My senses, as always when I'm out in wilderness, were on high alert, particularly listening intently for movement in and around camp in the evenings. I try to arrive at my 'home for the night' early enough in daylight hours so my nervous system can settle into the space before dark. It's something I learned with Shyla, my canine companion, many years before.

I also make an effort to not be right next to running water that is loud enough to block my ability to hear movement around me. It's all survival instinct, I know, and I do my best to make myself as comfortable as I can when I solo hike.

My mind was racing so fast the first few days that I was unable to even notice that my mind was racing so fast! On the second night, it came into my awareness that I needed to do something because not sleeping out of fear and active legs was not going to be helpful the next day on the trail when I was to summit Donohue Pass, a difficult and barren pass reaching 11,044 ft.

When times like this happen--my anxiety and nervous system are on high alert--I can't even remember that I have tools to help me calm down and focus much less know what they are. I tried journaling and the stream of thought was just chaotic, jumbled and jumpy as my mind was, though it offered some relief to the inner ramblings. My body and mind couldn't sit still enough for formal meditation and I didn't feel comfortable being outside around the tent much after dark.

What if I tried to pay attention to one single breath from beginning to end? Oh! That's right, simple exercises. My mind has a tendency to want to complicate things when it gets nervous or aroused. But simple. Mindfulness is simple and in the moment.

I wasn't successful at first, but after a few attempts I could follow a full single breath from beginning to end. Then, I upped the challenge. What if I could pay attention to  five breaths in a row? Just five breaths?

Those first five breaths I didn't notice much, except that my mind was getting more focused in the present. My attention was actually becoming oriented to something that was actually happening in the moment--not some perceived threat conjured out of fear of the unknown.

What would happen if I paid attention to just five more breaths? Just five breaths.

I completed the next five and just kept going. Can I be with five more breaths? How about five more?

Within about ten minutes I could notice my heart rate slowing, my attention becoming aware of the soothing night sounds, and fearful and anxious thoughts subsiding. Soon I was able to fall asleep doing this practice. Five breaths at a time.

Each time I awoke that night, which was many, I just turned inward to see, "Can I pay attention to just the next five breaths?"

My ability to tune into the benevolent experience of the night increased each time I turned to this exploration and the practice became a 'go to' anytime I noticed I was reeling with anxious thoughts.

For all Beings
by  Zenju Earthlyn Manuel
 
May all beings be cared for and loved,
Be listened to, understood and acknowledged despite different views,
Be accepted for who they are in this moment,
Be afforded patience,
Be allowed to live without fear of having their lives taken away or their bodies violated.
May all beings,
Be well in its broadest sense,
Be fed,
Be clothed,
Be treated as if their life is precious,
Be held in the eyes of each other as family.
May all beings,
Be appreciated,
Feel welcomed anywhere on the planet,
Be freed from acts of hatred and desperation including war, poverty, slavery, and street crimes,
Live on the planet, housed and protected from harm,
Be given what is needed to live fully, without scarcity,
Enjoy life, living without fear of one another,
Be able to speak freely in a voice and mind of undeniable love.
May all beings,
Receive and share the gifts of life,
Be given time to rest, be still, and experience silence.
May all beings,
Be awake.

{Enjoy watching Zenju Earthlyn share this metta practice here.}