“The dead cannot cry out for justice. It is a duty of the living to do so for them.: ~ Lois McMaster Bujold.

I don’t know when my love of the outdoors, of nature, of mountains and trees, rivers and lakes began.  I was born in the grey city of Manchester, England, before the clean air act.  A foggy, rainy, did I mention grey? city.  But each summer, our parents would pack up the vehicle of the time with camping gear, clothes and food for the long drive through the mountains of North Wales, to a campsite near the beach in a tiny town called Borth-y-gest.  Before you get any bright ideas of idyllic sunny days at the beach, you need to know that Wales gets its fair share of rain also, resulting in many shades of green on the hillsides, and many days cowering in a tent trying to stay dry.

To get the most of the vacation, we would often set off on a Sunday, after my father’s church service, and because there were no ‘highways’, motorways as they say in the UK, that went to our destination, the drive would take us well into the night. With a carful of a family of seven and all the necessities,  along winding country roads the engine would let you know it had to struggle up the hills, my father ‘drawing gear’ on the steeper inclines.

North Wales is a magical and mystical place, with tales of dragons and fairies (the little people).  It is not hard to believe when surrounded by majestic mountains obscured at times by clouds or mist.  In the woods behind the little town we knew that the fairies lived in the bluebells that would cover the ground at the right time of year.  The land is magical still. 

My return there many years later filled me with nostalgia.  I had gone back for my parent’s fiftieth wedding anniversary, and achieved one of my lifelong ambitions (this was before the term ‘bucket list’ became a thing) to climb Snowdon, Yr Wyddfa (the Welsh name which means grave!).  This is the highest peak in England and Wales. The hike was breathtaking in more ways than one, for my unconditioned body (I was young, but Florida does not exactly prepare you for the uphill nature of mountain climbing!) had to pause frequently to take a photo, and catch my breath.

When we finally made it to the peak I was somewhat disappointed not to be able to see all the way to the sea, which you can on a clear day.  But it felt right to be up so high that you were part of the clouds, moisture dripping from the beard of my brother-in-law, my guide of the day.  A mystical experience.

In Jamaica years earlier, I had stayed one Easter in Newcastle, high above Kingston, an area first developed to protect English soldiers from the tropical diseases of the tropical coastline.  Up in the Blue Mountains where temperatures can dip low at night, where water left outside overnight may be found with a skim of ice in the morning, the air is rare, the stars are close, the peace is all encompassing.  When I returned to Jamaica more recently, I had driven with friends up to Newcastle and through Hardwar Gap, and once more had been enshrouded in low lying clouds, feeling the mood change, wondering what stories those mountains could tell.

I have recently been enjoying a series on public television, Great Outdoors with Baratunde Thurston.  This young African American takes us to the wild places of North America.  He not only shows you these spectacularly beautiful scenes, he meets interesting people doing interesting things and joins them. Whether it is collecting wild rice in Minnesota or canoeing  down the Suwannee river in Florida, Baratunde brings you the history, the culture, the geography along with the beauty of these lonely places.

The other night he dared to get geared up and climb up into tall ancient trees in Oregon, using ropes and winches to haul himself higher and higher, forty feet in the air.  At one point he stopped, and decided he did not need to go any higher, and soon it became apparent that what stopped him was not physiology, not aching arms, but because he had tapped into a deep psychological scar.  For the most part this young man is positive and upbeat while sharing the amazing lives of others.  He has a way with words, with descriptions, that entertain while they educate.  But we were watching him trying to handle a deep emotion.

While dangling from the tree limbs he had suddenly felt the pain of his ancestors, those cruelly hoisted up to their death, over and over again.  Billie Holliday had sang of those Southern trees with their strange fruits, and Baratunde could not ignore that cruel history.  His climbing partner (a White man) could sympathize, could hug him and support him through his emotional revisiting of the past, but it was clear that it had never occurred to him, as he pursued his career, dangling from on high.  It reminded me of a Jamaican friend of mine, who when asked why she didn’t like the idea of going on a cruise answered: ‘long ship journeys did not end well for my people’.  

When we don’t know the experience of another, we cannot begin to imagine the pain of their journey.  When history does not accurately represent the struggles, the ugliness, the violence of injustice, we do a disservice to all.  We must share our stories in order to build empathy, to repair the injustices of the past, to create a more united future.

I can only hope that across the United States, enough people drawn to the outdoors who watch Baratunde’s show, will gain even more insight into the deeper lessons he teaches, about the lives of others, the humanity of all people, the healing ability of being outdoors.  In the end he and his tree-climbing partner wondered how that horrible legacy of lynching had affected the trees, those unwilling co-conspirators in the dastardly deeds.  Did they weep?  Did they cry out?

Perhaps more of us have to cry, to feel the pain that others have suffered, in order for the nation to be healed.  This Friday morning I hope to bring more people to the awareness that we all need to be inquisitive, to want to understand the lived experiences of others.  To feel pain is to be alive, and to force you to find answers and treatment for the pain.  To open things up to the light of day to cleanse and restore.  It is my hope.

Have a wonderful weekend, Family!

One Love!

Namaste.