Seismic Knowing

Earth's wisdom to guide through life's winters

I felt her heartbeat long before I saw her, seismic waves rippling out, reaching for my hand again. The intensity grew as we crossed state lines into Idaho, and I felt another cosmic leap when we passed a sign that read, “Welcome to Montana.”

It was late May, and at home we had all but kicked off winter’s blanket. The tomato starts were already tucked into the garden bed, and sugar snap peas thickly vined up the surrounding fence, holding with their fierce tendrils wrapped around the wires. My children played barefoot in the backyard, and we all welcomed the sun’s intensifying rays.

When I work in the garden, I often bring questions. I bring concerns that have been weighing on me, or uncertainty about upcoming decisions. For me, I find that muddiness of hands leads to clarity of thought. In the weeks prior, when I set out to plant the peas and later the tomatoes, I brought the question of knowing when to push and when to yield. In my relationships, in my aspirations, in my dreams, when do I push for what I’m called to and when do I trust that yielding will bring something greater?

I thought of the peas boldly pushing their way through a fresh blanket of snow. But then of the tomatoes, who crave the comfort and warmth of the later season. Each confident in their knowing, each pushing and yielding in their time. As I worked my garden and considered it all, I felt a tremor in the earth. A faint vibration, traveling through my fingers buried deep in the soil, and up through my entire being. The beginning of my answer came as a call from the north to visit Glacier National Park.

***

As our drive continued through the big Montana country, I watched the junipers give way to pines. We climbed in latitude and elevation, and found ourselves in a rugged and verdant landscape. I inhaled deeply, taking in the earthy scent of rain and decomposition, and got the sense that these mountains were big enough to hold me. To hold all of my hopes, my aches, my hardships. The seismic waves that I had been feeling were arms rushing out to meet me, pulling me into a tight embrace. Our heartbeats thundered together. You are here. You are home. The intensity took my breath away.

The Blackfeet people call this region “the backbone of the world,” and being there it was clear why. I had the sense that the land would both hold me together and lift me with wings to fly.

***

During the transition between spring and summer, road crews spend several weeks working to clear the main through road of Glacier National Park: the Going to the Sun Road. While the crews are working from both ends, the road opens to bike and pedestrian traffic, allowing for a more intimate experience with the region, far away from the cars and limited parking spaces that accompany full road access. I came eager for the experience, while also hedging expectations as we were traveling with three young children. I knew we wouldn’t make it even as far as the road had been cleared, so instead I turned my mind to cultivating a deep sense of presence in place. I lingered on smells, on views, on the immensity of the land before me. And I felt a sense of return. A welcoming home.

As we biked and my children inevitably tired, I felt the mountains lift me in my mothering. When I spoke, the wind lifted my words and carried them with increased clarity before delivering them to my children’s ears. I felt myself parenting in community with the land, and we were all better for it.

I came to realize that the earth had called me to witness a landscape that had evolved to rely on a year-round relationship with winter. Glaciers are, after all, winter snowpack that never melts. Their impact takes time, but is a force to be reckoned with, and winter is less of an oppressive force than one of co-creation. Winter and earth work in community to form the iconic landscape that they lead, and each yields to the other in their own time. To hike through it feels like you get to join in the dance. To join in the creation.

I remembered back to the question that brought me here–when to push, when to yield–and smiled as it became clear that it was the backbone of the earth who held the answer. Of course, the one who stands strong and confident, who unifies every moving part, who gives leverage with which to take action. The land spoke to me of the flow between leading and yielding. She showed me what it felt like, and as I looked around at the breathtaking scenery around me, I could see that she was grateful for the winter and all that it made her. I want to co-create with my life’s winters in the same trusting yield. The rugged canyons and sweeping landscapes attest to the beauty and power of the process.

***

Now that I’m home, I still find myself in communion with Glacier, albeit in quieter ways. Sometimes it seems we need the grandeur of the performance to teach us how to hear the softness of lullabies. But even now, I still hear her thrumming heartbeat. I try to lean on her wisdom. I listen for her echoes of advice as they travel down the spine of the Rocky Mountains.

The other day, my family was riding bikes through the neighborhood and my son grew tired while riding up a hill. But from behind, I saw him mentally shift before declaring, “I am strong. If I keep telling myself that, I can do anything. ANYTHING!” All this time, I thought I was the only one who heard her from here. But it seems that my kids still hear her too.

My worries gave way to the force of winter, to the glacial confidence and strength that Glacier had radiated. But this time, the power was coming from within myself. When I recognized it as my own, the earth thrummed her heartbeat with a renewed fervor. Push, she said, it’s time.

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