CHAPTER III
 
 

SYMPHONY OF NATURE AT THE MOUNTAIN OF MILLE MEDITATIONS

 
ILLUSTRATIONS

 
 

RECOMMENDED FIRST MEDITATIONS

"Zoroaster, the Master of Life"
 
 

MOUNTAINS

Mountains...seem to have been built for the human race, as at once their schools and cathedrals; full of treasures of illuminated manuscript for the scholar, kindly in simple lessons for the worker, quiet in pale cloisters for the thinker, glorious in holiness for the worshipper.  They are great cathedrals of the earth, with their gates of rock, pavements of cloud, choirs of stream, and stone, altars of snow, and vaults of purple traversed by the continual stars.

The mountains are to many of us inexhaustible sources of joy and peace, of health, and even of life. We have gone to them jaded and worn, feeling perhaps without any external cause, anxious and out of spirits, and have returned full of health, strength, and energy.  Among the mountains Nature herself seems freer and happier, brighter and purer, than elsewhere.  The fresh air, the mysterious summits of the mountains, the blue haze of the distance, the morning tints and the evening glow, the beauty of the sky and the grandeur of the storm, all have refreshed and delighted us time after time and their memories can never fade away.

The endless variety, the sense of repose and yet of power, the dignity of age, the energy of youth, the play of color, the beauty of form, the mystery of their origin, all combine to invest mountains with a solemn beauty.  Mountains are the beginning and the end of all natural scenery.

Consider the difference produced in the whole tone of landscape color by the introductions of purple, violet, and deep ultramarine blue which we owe to mountains.  In an ordinary lowland landscape we have the blue of the sky; the green of the grass, entirely fresh and bright, the green of trees; certain elements of purple, far more rich and beautiful than we generally should think, in trees' bark and shadows (bare hedges and thickets, or tops of trees, in subdued afternoon sunshine, are nearly perfect purple and of an exquisite tone), as well as in plowed fields, and dark ground in general.  But among mountains, in addition to all this, large unbroken spaces of pure violet and purple are introduced in the distances; and even near, by films of cloud passing over the darkness of ravines or forests, blues of the most subtle tenderness are produced; these azures and purples pass into rose color of otherwise wholly unattainable delicacy among the upper summits, the blue of the sky being at the same time purer and deeper than in the plains. Nay, in some sense, a person who has never seen the rose color of the rays of dawn crossing a blue mountain twelve or fifteen miles away can hardly be said to know what tenderness in color means at all; bright tenderness he may, indeed, see in the sky or in a flower, but this grave tenderness of the faraway hill purples he cannot conceive.

Mountains have the most rugged forms and the most graceful outlines; bold perpendicular cliffs and gentle undulating slopes; rocky mountains and snowy mountains, somber and solemn, or glittering and white, with walls, turrets, pinnacles, pyramids, domes, cones, and spires!  There is every combination that the world can give, and every contrast that the heart can desire.

The Autumn and Winter again have a grandeur and beauty of their own.  Autumn is dark on the mountains; gray mist rests on the hills.  The whirlwind is heard on the heath.  Dark flows the creek through the valley.  The leaves twirl round with the wind, and strew the graves of the dead.

Even bad weather often but enhances the beauty and grandeur of mountains.  When the lower parts are hidden, and the peaks stand out above the clouds, they look much loftier than if the whole mountain side is visible.  The gloom lends a weirdness and mystery to the scene, while the flying clouds give it additional variety.

On low ground one may be in the clouds, but not above them.  But as we look down from mountains and see the clouds floating far below us we almost seem to be looking down upon earth from one of the heavenly bodies.

ROCKS

The walls of these valleys are made up of rocks of different sizes, partly separated from each other by narrow gorges and side canyons.

Every rock seems to glow with life. Some lean back in majestic repose; others, absolutely sheer, or nearly so, for thousands of feet, advance their brows in thoughtful attitudes beyond their companions, giving welcome to storms and calms alike, seemingly conscious yet heedless of everything going on about them; awful in stern majesty, types of permanence, yet associated with beauty of the frailest and most fleeting forms; their feet set in oak groves and gay emerald meadows, their brows in the sky; bathed in light, while clouds and the winds shine and surge and wreathe about them as the years go by, as if into these mountain mansions Nature had taken pains to gather her choicest treasures to draw her lovers into close and confiding communion with her.

TREES

By day or by night, summer or winter, beneath trees the heart feels nearer to that depth of life which the far sky represents.  The rest of the spirit, found only in beauty, ideal and pure, comes there because the distance seems within touch of thought.

If we rest quietly under an oak tree, with the scent of flowers and the odor of green bud and leaves, a ray of sunlight yonder lighting up the lichen and the moss on the oak trunk, a gentle air stirring in the branches above, giving glimpses of fleecy clouds sailing in the ether -- there comes into the mind a feeling of intense joy in the simple fact of living.

The various actions of trees rooting themselves in inhospitable rocks, stooping to look into ravines, hiding from the search of glacier winds, reaching forth to the rays of rare sunshine, crowding down together to drink at sweetest streams, climbing hand in hand among the mossy knolls, gathering into companies at rest among the fragrant fields, gliding in grave procession over the heavenward ridges...

On the mountains, tree after tree being constantly revealed in successive height, one behind another, instead of showing mere tops and flanks of masses as in the plains; And the forms of multitudes of them continually defined against the clear sky, near and above, or against white clouds entangled among their branches, instead of being confused in dimness of distance.

OAKS

Beside the common Douglas Oak and the grand Quercus Wislizeni of the foothills, and several small ones that make dense growths of chaparral, there are two mountain oaks that grow with the pines up to an elevation of about 5000 feet above the sea.

Their trunks are all knots and buttresses, gray like granite, and about as angular and irregular as the boulders on which they grow -- a type of steadfast, unwedgeable strength.

The winds flow in melody through the colossal oaks, and they are vocal everywhere with the song of birds. Miles of fragrant manzanita bushes bloom beneath them, and gardens and meadows, and damp, ferny glens in endless variety of fragrance and color.  Sweeping on over ridge and valley, these noble trees extend a continuous belt from end to end of the range.

The trees, with thin, pale green foliage, stand far apart and cast but little shade.  The leaves make beautiful masses of purple in the spring, and yellow in ripe autumn, while their acorns are eagerly gathered by squirrels and woodpeckers.  The Mountain Live Oak is a tough, rugged mountaineer of a tree, growing bravely and attaining noble dimensions on the roughest earthquake taluses in deep canyons and valleys.  The trunk is usually short, dividing near the ground into great, wide spreading limbs, and these again into a multitude of slender sprays, many of them cord like and drooping to the ground, like those of the Great White Oak of the lowlands.  The top of the tree is broad and spacious, with a dense covering of shining leaves, making delightful canopies, the complicated system of gray, interlacing, arching branches as seen from beneath, being exceedingly rich and picturesque.

WATER

Of all inorganic substances, acting in their own proper nature and without assistance or combination, water is the most wonderful.  If we think of it as the source of all the changefulness and beauty which we have seen in the clouds; then, as the instrument by which the earth we have contemplated was modeled into symmetry, and its crags chiseled into grace; then in the form of snow, robing the mountains it has made with that transcendent light we could not have conceived if we had not seen; then, as it exists in the foam of the torrent, in the iris which spans it, in the morning mist which rises from it, in the deep crystalline pools which mirror its hanging shore, in the broad lake and glancing river; and finally, in that which is to all human minds the best emblem of unwearied, unconquerable power:  the wild, various, fantastic, tameless unity of the sea -- to what shall we compare this mighty, this universal element for glory and for beauty?  Or how shall we follow its eternal cheerfulness of feeling?  It is like trying to paint a soul.

RAIN

The "rainy season" is by no means a gloomy, soggy period of constant cloudiness and rain.  Perhaps nowhere else in North America or even the world, are the months of December, January, February and March so full of bland plant-building sunshine.  I find that the first rain of the season falls at the end of December, January has only three or four rainy days -- that is, days on which rain falls -- February has three or four, and March has two or three days, completing the so-called rainy season.  The winds come from the northwest, veer round to opposite direction, and the sky fills gradually and evenly with one general cloud, from which rain falls occasionally, often for days in succession, at a temperature of about 55 or 60 degrees.

The air is sweet and clean, vibrant with the promise of spring flowers, and the thirsty earth sings with gratitude for the cooling waters.  The sky is thrilling and ominous, with murky clouds constantly changing patterns like a giant kaleidoscope, and sometimes at night a sliver of moon may be seen, a ghostly candle threading its way through a sea of mist.

WIND

There is always something deeply exciting, not only in the sounds of winds in these woods, which more or less exert influence over every mind, but in their varied water-like flow as manifested by the movements of the oaks.  By no other trees are they rendered so extensively and impressively visible, not even by the lordly tropic palms or tree ferns responsive to the gentlest breeze.  The waving of a forest of giant oaks is indescribably impressive and sublime.

SKY

A man can hardly lift up his eyes toward the heavens without wonder and veneration, to see so many millions of radiant lights, and to observe their courses and revolutions, even without any respect to the common good of the universe.  In the changing panorama of the sky is embodied the whole scope of man's experience on this planet:  in the flush of the sunrise, the awakening of desire to know, to probe, to discover the hidden laws of the universe; in the intense blue of the spring sky, the process of growth, the germination of ideas and unborn thoughts; in the ripe glow of sunset, the maturing of consciousness and the realization of dreams; in the murkiness of a storm-lashed sky, his temporary defeat; and in the mystic silence of a star-filled night, his final awareness of the oneness of all that lives:  of heaven and earth, of flowers and cloud, of man and sky.
 
 

CLOUDS

The sky is truly the kaleidoscope of nature, and clouds are the colors she uses to paint her pictures.  At sunrise, one moment the earth is gray and quiet; suddenly the world stretches and yawns and floods of rose and orange hues splash across the sky, reflecting on the somber rocks and turning them into pure gold.  The clouds climb higher and at midday float in white wreaths in a sea of pale blue, or puff their cheeks and become huge white billows, changing in shape as the winds blow, now a gigantic silver dragon, now a soaring eagle, now a kingly polar bear.  Often, when the sky is so blue it seems clouds never existed, there comes drifting by a tiny little cloud, round and saucy, proclaiming his authority over all earth-bound creatures.

And who can describe the terrible splendor of the enormous rain cloud, all darkness and wrath, etched in fire from the reflected glow of the defeated sun?  And how difficult to tell of the clouds of sunset -- massive, crimson, laden with the treasures of the day, about to bury them in the velvet blackness of night.  Then, in the varying shapes of the glowing clouds one can see the strange shapes of distant lands, a ghost ship bearing the exiled king, he sun; or a primordial volcano, spewing hot golden lava over trees, rocks and meadows.  Sometimes long and wispy and silver, sometimes full of molten fire, sometimes heavy with thunder and rain, the clouds move across the sky as nature wills, a never-ending fountain of color and mystery.
 
 

WILD FLOWERS

By the end of January four species of plant are in flower, and five or six mosses have already adjusted their hoods and are in the prime of life; but the flowers are not sufficiently numerous as yet to affect greatly the general green of the young leaves.  Violets make their appearance in the first week of February, and toward the end of this month the warmer portions of the plain are already golden with myriads of flowers of rayed compositae.

This is the full springtime.  The sunshine grows warmer and richer, new plants bloom every day; the air becomes more tuneful with humming wings, and sweeter with the fragrance of the opening flowers.  Ants and ground squirrels are getting ready for their summer work, rubbing their benumbed limbs, and sunning themselves on the husk piles before their doors; and spiders are busily mending their old webs, or weaving new ones.

In March, the vegetation is more than doubled in depth and, together with a host of yellow compositae, tall enough now to bend in the wind and show wavering ripples of shade.

In April, plant life, as a whole, reaches its greatest height, and in the plain, over all its varied surface, is mantled with a close, furred plush of purple and golden vegetation.  By the end of this month, most of the species will have ripened their seeds.

In June, July, August, September, is the season of rest and sleep, a winter of dry heat, the very driest time of the year.  Then, after the shrunken  mass of leaves and stalks of dead vegetation crinkle and turn to dust beneath the feet, as if it had been baked in an oven, slender, unobtrusive little plants suddenly make their appearance in patches extending for miles, like a resurrection.
 
 

WILD CREATURES

If thy heart be right, then will every creature be to thee a mirror of life, and a book of holy doctrine.

Lizards glide about on the rocks enjoying a constitution that no drought can dry, and ants in amazing numbers, whose tiny sparks of life seem to burn the brighter with the increasing heat, ramble industriously in long trains in search of food.  Crows, ravens, magpies, all friends in distress, gather on the ground beneath the best shade trees, panting with drooping wings and bills wide open, scarce a note from any of them during the midday hours.  Quail, too, seek the shade during the heat of the day.  Rabbits scurry from thicket to thicket among the bushes, and occasionally a long-eared hare is seen cantering gracefully across the wider openings.  The nights are calm and dewless during the summer, and a thousand voices proclaim the abundance of life, notwithstanding the desolate effect of dry sunshine upon the plants and larger animals.  The crickets make a delightfully pure and tranquil music after sunset; and coyotes, the little, despised dogs of the wilderness, brave, hardy fellows, looking like withered wisps of hay, bark in chorus for hours.  And if one is persevering, sometimes on a late fall afternoon he may be rewarded by the unforgettable sight of swift antlers reflecting golden sun, and the incredible grace of a young doe bounding through the field, shaming even hawks in flight.
 
 

SUNRISE

How glorious a greeting the sun gives the mountains!  To behold this alone is worth a thousand times over the pains of any excursion.  The peaks burn like islands in a sea of liquid shade.  Then the lower peaks and spires catch the glow, and long lances of light streaming through many a notch and pass, fall thick on the frozen meadows.

All things are warming and awakening.  Frozen rills begin to flow, the marmots come out of their nests in boulder piles and climb onto sunny rocks to bask, and the dun-headed sparrows are flitting about seeking their breakfasts.  The rocks, too, seem responsive to the vital heat; rock crystals and snow crystals thrilling alike.

SUNSET

Now, about the solemn, silent evenings on these mountains.  Long, blue, spiky shadows creep out across the fields, while a rosy glow, at first scarcely discernible, gradually deepens and suffuses every mountain top, flushing them and the harsh crags above them.  This is the alpen glow, to me one of the most impressive of all the terrestrial manifestations of God.  At the touch of this divine light, the mountains seem to kindle to a rapt, religious consciousness, and stand hushed and waiting like devout worshippers. Just before the alpen glow begins to fade, two crimson clouds come streaming across the summit like wings of flame, rendering the sublime scene yet more impressive; then comes darkness, and the stars.

SPRING

Usually a massive, round-browed cloud comes swelling and thundering over the flowery plain in most imposing majesty, burning white and purple in the full blaze of the sun, while rain pours from its ample fountains like a cataract, beating down flowers and bees, and flooding the dry watercourses.  But in less than half an hour not a trace of the heavy, mountain-like cloud structure is left in the sky, and the bees are on the wing, as if nothing more gratefully refreshing could have been sent them.

WINTER

Every winter the mountains get snow and even the foothills are at times whitened.  Then all the range looks like a vast beveled wall of purest marble.  The rough places are then made smooth, the death and decay of the year are covered gently and kindly, and the ground seems as clean as the sky.  And silent in its flight from the clouds, the snow takes its place on rock, tree, and grassy meadow.