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Sunday Mornings

© James E. Ratzloff

At a contra dance I asked my partner what she does for a living. "A Lutheran Minister" she replied, and told me the church where she teaches at. During our conversation I admitted to her I have not been to a church in years. "Its just too hard to be inside on a Sunday Morning, when you can be out somewhere where there is the scent of pine.", I told her. And its true - My idea of a good Sunday is breathing in the fresh mountain air and walking among trunks of patterned black to light brown bark, through the light green needles of a Ponderosa Pine forest. Up there I may get a glimpse of a mountain lion, or more likely a mule deer grazing on a hillside, or a coyote retreating through the mahogany and serviceberry. Some days I may feel the warmth of the sun as it rises over the plains, on others only cold and wind gusts that I have to hunker down against. Even those days are ok though, because the sound of the wind breezing through the evergreen branches is the best kind of hymn there is.

I have no doubt that some very spiritual people feel God in a building on a Sunday Morning. But there are others of us who most clearly feel the divine outside, walking alone in the woods of a high ridge.

That is pretty close to what my dance partner minister said to me when I told her how I like to spend Sunday mornings. - "some people are comfortable with solitude; others need to have people around when they worship." Her accepting attitude made me think she was a wise lady, and even more so to understand the renewal and joy of dancing.

She laughed when I told her my best weeks are those when I am alone in the mountains with my dogs, and then come down to dance and celebrate for the weekend.

My bet is that a lot of backpackers are like me, comfortable with the life and entertainment of the city, where we do our jobs, but the away time is precious, and similar to going to church.

I am fairly certain I could spend a lifetime of Sundays in church and not feel holiness like I did on my approach to the Cirque of the Towers, when two hawks drifted down on the thermals, to soar just above the spruce and fir treetops, in front of the white peaks of the divide.

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