Mark Scandrette

We returned yesterday from our second annual silent retreat in Kirkwood. Since I generally talk 16 hours a day, it was quite refreshing to be forced into silence and a bit of solitude. The weekend was a good time to refocus and reflect on my priorities and goals. Somehow this year I would like to live with a greater sense of center, even when I am active and life is full. Here’s a poem I wrote about an experience I had this weekend:

Cautiously I step
onto the frozen crust
of deep packed snow.

Once or twice I hesitate
falling through up to my waste
Slowly learning to plant my feet
like stairs along the slope.

Past the fur trees I ascend
climbing a wall up toward the sky
on a path that goes on endlessly
My heart pounds
and my lungs labor
in the thin Sierra Nevada air.

At the top of the ridge
the wind howls through the stone crevaces
as I inch my way up towards the pinnacle
clawing through the snow
my hands scrape against the jagged ledge

I stop to catch my breath and notice
that I am at the top of the world!
with a three-hundred-sixty degree view
of surrounding mountains
stretching out in every direction
along the horizon.

I make my bed in the black lava
slowly removing my clothes
pressing my body against the warm ancient flow.

A top this perch I lay amidst snowdrifts
exposed to the sky
the sun beating down on my face
–and to shield my eyes from the brightness
I turn my head
gazing toward the mesa
on the far side of the valley

Hours pass like minutes
Nothing visible changes
until a cloud rolls by
veiling the mountain in cold blue shadows
that make my skin prickle

I look up at the swirling mist dancing above me
and wonder, “How long has it been?”
“Months? Years? A decade?”

This afternoon I will be still
sitting in silence, watching,
Remembering how small I am
in the vast expanse
of earth, sky and eternity
Bathed in the tempermental radiance of your wild.