Rocks of Ages

Posted on Wednesday, August 29th, 2018 by Christina Baldwin

I’m walking in a narrow riverbed, wearing special river boots and feeling my way carefully over rocks hidden under murky water. I am carrying a hiking stick, probing for balance. Above me, cliffs soar 1500 feet revealing a slit of morning sky. I place my hand along the sandstone walls of the slot canyon, touching what was seabed 61 million years ago. Touching what water can do to rock. Touching a strip of smoothed rock-face about shoulder height, burnished by hundreds of thousands of hands just like mine, pressing skin on stone.

This is a hike called the Zion Narrows, where the Virgin River flows through Zion National Park in southern Utah. It is a spectacular end-of-summer adventure that Ann and I have been training for by walking Whidbey trails for months: increasing distance, hours, weight in our backpacks. We ride the first park shuttle of the day and arrive at the wade-in point, in the middle of the park about 7:30 AM.

People dwarfed by canyon walls. Zion Narrows.

We will stay “in river” for over nine hours, walk over 10 miles, and alternate between moments of utter aloneness with Nature, and navigating around clumps of people in various stages of appreciation and athleticism. People come from all over the world to do this hike and the languages that stream by us babble like the river itself. There are many families, mid-life and younger parents, teens and toddlers, some younger grandparents. I would say I am the elder here—except that is a ridiculous, egocentric, anthropomorphic comment when walking along these cliffs comprised of sedimentary deposits of unimaginable age.

In the National Park Service brochure, it is written: “These rock layers hold stories of ancient environments and inhabitants very different from those found in Zion today. In this distant past, Zion and the Colorado Plateau were near sea level and were even in a different place on the globe—close to the equator. The rock layers found in Zion today were deposited approximately 110-270 million years ago, and only in recent geologic time uplifted to form the scenery of Zion National Park.”

And I am a seventy-two year old human-being walking in the floor of the canyon, pressing my palms onto the skin of the rock, awash in awe and wonder. I am humbled by the beauty, and calmed inside the incomprehensible bigness of this story. Truly, Earth is the planet of the stones.

Moving slowly, deliberately upriver, I am held in a beauty that allows both gratitude and grief to rise. Gratitude that the canyon is still protected; grief for most everything else, especially that other Utah canyon lands are being auctioned off by shortsightedness and greed to the oil and gas industry. The mantra, “forgive me, forgive us,” wrenches through my heart…but just as quickly the thought races back, “What humanity has done to the Earth is not forgivable. It is not even appropriate to ask such a thing of these stones.”

Forgiveness is a human issue. Inadvertently or intentionally we trespass on one another’s trust. As we become aware of our transgressions, most of us try to be accountable for harm done, we practice making amends, learn to ask to be forgiven, and to forgive. We ask this of one another. We ask this of institutions because corporations, churches, governments, and militaries are all run by people. Forgiveness functions at the scale of human flaw, human harm, and human capacity for recovery.

Zion Narrows–high noon

The stone I am touching is outside this drama. I am standing under a cliff that does not register my presence: forgiveness is not the business of these stones. They are invulnerable. They are the body of the Earth. I am the disposable being here. My species is so young we are not even embedded in the geologic layer. And when this era crumbles to dust, what a layer that will be: landfills, atomic waste and nuclear warheads, mountains of plastics, tumbled skyscrapers, rusting vehicles, the bones of billions and the Sixth Great Extinction. But the cliffs will take it all and press it down and make more layers atop us.

Geologists have named and chronicled these layers: the Carmel Formation, the Temple Cap Formation, the Navajo Sandstone, the Kenyeta Foundation—representing several hundred millions of years of compression and upheaval. The waterfalls seeping out of the sandstone have been a thousand years in the making, since an ancient rainy day drove droplets into the top layer and they filtered down and down and down. Purified, they fall on my uplifted face. The earth has cleansed it all—whatever happened then, the stink of dying mastodons, the rotting seaweed of a long gone sea, and whatever happens now and tomorrow—eventually we all become a chapter in the story of the stones.

I stand in a moment of profound recognition: human beings cannot destroy the Earth. I kiss the cliff walls with unbounded joy, with the certainty that this rock will survive.

The land I live on, my island in Puget Sound, is an old river delta made by glacial melting 10,000 years ago. It is young and unstable, the layers loosely packed and crumbling back into the sea. It rests on the edge of deep coastal fault-lines.

This land I visit is old, weathered, wise even. It transmits endurance. Standing in place. Allowing wind and water to shape it. To sustain joy in these times is a matter of what I identify as source, as ground. I pause here: feet in the river, hands on the stone, sun and shadow all around me.

Stilled.

It is still true that beyond the canyon walls humanity is busily destroying the biosphere that makes our version of life-on-Earth possible. It is still true that the foundational question of life on Earth at this time is whether or not we as a species will rally ourselves to correct our relationship with Nature. It is still true that the answer may be no: or that our systemic tampering with biological and geological energies is beyond our capacity to correct to our liking. It is still true that how we have treated one another, and how we have treated the species that companion us, and used the resources offered us, is unforgivable and has grave consequences that are all coming due. But in this moment I am just a tiny desert lizard licking the water of life off the rock walls. I am in sunshine. I am home. I surrender to what is.

Canyon lizard–the weeping rocks, near entrance. All photos by Ann Linnea

 

19 responses to “Rocks of Ages”

  1. paul morris says:

    thank you Christina and Ann for
    another “chapter in the story of the stones”

  2. Meredith Jordan says:

    Sharing this tender essay on The Living Spiritual Elders page. Thank you for taking us on this journey with you, and thank you for the reminder that the Sacred endures beyond all manner of things we humans have thrown at it. This is just an exquisite piece, reminiscent of Terry Tempest Williams or Barbara Brown Taylor, but in your True Voice. I bow to your wisdom, little desert lizard.

    • Christina Baldwin says:

      Dear sister on the other shore… thank you always for your support, response, and attentive heart to your world. We are everywhere–the spiritual hikers of life.

  3. James Wells says:

    Earth is mighty indeed. I dreamt of you and Ann last night, Christina, and woke up, and opened the email that was a trail to this marvellous adventure with river and stone. Thank you for sharing it with us.

  4. Karyl Howard says:

    Oh, Christina. You have so deeply touched my heart, soul and brain with this and I am in awe of your words. While that is nothing new for your writings, what makes this really intense for my elder soul is that my undergraduate training was in geology and the Earth is always calling to me. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

    • Christina Baldwin says:

      I loved geology in college! I also loved words… words won, but rocks still come in a close second. Thanks for understanding, Karyl.

  5. Betty Till says:

    Thank you Christina for these words of wisdom and these natural stones do give new meaning to the word “elder”. Your words and Ann’s photos have inspired me to put this on my ever expanding bucket and curiosity list.

  6. Dear Christina,

    As you know from reading my blog, I too love to get out to the rocks and stones that support us all. Geology I haven’t studied — I just try to capture their shape and color in a photograph. The stillness of nature connects me to source too.
    I am happy for you that your health enables you to make this hike. Please post more pictures when you can!

    Love and peace, Harry

    • Christina Baldwin says:

      Harry, so good to hear from you. I went out on your website–since you travel with something more than an iPhone in a plastic case trying to keep in dry while you oogle your way up river! All my photos from that day don’t begin to capture “it” but your photos DO capture it. Thank you. I just spent several minutes scrolling through your portfolio of the Southwest, tears coming at the beauty of your eye and heart on the stones. Anyone want this bath of serenity go to http://www.hitzemanphotography.com.

  7. This is so provocative, another perspective from our teeny tiny dot in the immense history of this planet. We are the ones that won’t survive our idiocy. (And how did I forget this is what you were doing this month!?) Thank you and Ann for sharing the adventure and for your always inspiring selves.

  8. How wonderful to read your witness of this part of the state and this time of societal life. My morning feels just a bit more still as I wade into your words and images. Thx!

  9. Ahhh Christina…Thank you! So beautifully said. Tears came to my eyes as I felt your experience. Lately the stones have been speaking through me and I’ve become fixated on painting rocks. I’ll email you some photos since I’m not able to attach pics here. Blessings and I will see you in March.

  10. Diana Smith says:

    I am touched by the magnificence and tenderness of your sharing…the vulnerable and joyful witness to all that is.

    With deep gratitude.

  11. Natalija says:

    thank you Christina, to open me a fresh perspective on time scale. It is such a deep observation you have shared. And I share deep deep pain for the nature and the planet. Because it is possible to do it other way, and it is our blindness that we don’t.

    • Christina Baldwin says:

      Dear across the world friend, I remember how much you love the ancient stone of Slovenia. I hope you can put your hands on the rocks whenever you are weary, and carry on your good work in the world. Blesssings from afar.

  12. Gayle Colman says:

    I surrender to what is… yes, indeed, this and only this will allow the space for us to forgive, and the grace and humility to attend to the harm of our greedy ways. Thank you for a few moments of tender sanity with you. Love! G

    • Christina Baldwin says:

      This is what remains from my journey as I move into the autumn “a few moments of tender sanity.” May we grab a small stone, like the heart stone that showed up on yesterday’s beach walk, and hold onto the ancient sources trying to inform our actions at this time.

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