By Roger Guest
When we take the time to listen to a waterfall or to waves stirring a gravel beach, an intangible intimacy with nature is often aroused. I believe human beings feel a cellular kinship with the array of sounds connected to water, perhaps because liquids make up so much of our bodies. It is possible that watery noise is particularly soothing because it calls forth hints of our aqueous origins. In any case, sounds generated by a mountain stream or the hush of rain falling or the soft lapping of an almost still lake cloaked in a hanging mist can be a beautiful portal for the inquisitive listener.
I take the attitude that lakes are living shrine rooms. and certainly, for me, kayaking is meditation. Floating quietly on a still pond invites a state of being that is both open and groundless. On this drifting meditation cushion, my mind simultaneously settles and expands as the lake’s surface amplifies the sacredness of the moment. Reflections of the surrounding forests and mountains highlight the fragility and insubstantiality of appearances. Each wave is the next fold in a great unfolding, each breath a joining of heaven and earth, and each soft stroke of the paddle another bow of respect. It truly is a wonderful practice.
With no specific destination other than being itself, kayaking and listening allow me to feel gently held by the natural world. Listening requires nothing more than my alert attention, and kayaking requires only a stable posture so that awareness can take its seat. Of course, mind wanders as it will, but like a dragonfly landing on its own reflection, my attention naturally returns to stillness. And when the mental mists disperse, as they do, a sense of gratitude and humbleness emerges.
If the water is still, my body is happy to remain motionless for minutes at a time. Often, the wet paddle on my lap dries between strokes. However, I am not waiting for anything in particular to happen. I am merely listening, seeing, and feeling. Peering into the reflective quality of mind unlocks the subtlety of each breath. If my mind is turbulent, the slightest impatience and restlessness manifest on the screen of the surface as if the lake itself is listening to me.
Because nature is never stagnant, the closest thing to silence is never quite silent. Likewise, in a kayak, one can be all by oneself but never entirely alone. Every lake is a community shared by thousands, if not billions, of sentient beings. Some are visible, some invisible, many audible, and many more inaudible. Creatures of all sizes and shapes live on, above, or below the surface. While a crane stands in the shallows, a beaver makes its way across the bay. In the grassy bog, slugs and ants feast on leaves, while flies emerge from rotting logs. The quiet scene asleep under the noonday sun becomes a great concert hall in silver moonlight. I cannot see the camouflaged choirs of bullfrogs and crickets waiting for their evening gig, but I can trust that after sundown, they will fill the entire valley with the high-pitched harmonies they have been rehearsing since the beginning of timelessness.
Particularly in the shallows, the hours feel effervescent. Schools of minnows scoot between submerged stems like a painted tribe in an underwater jungle. They navigate the submerged geometry of the shoreline as if it were a musical score. Above, the shortest distance between two trees is the sagging flight path of a swallow. Below it is the darting wag of a tailfin. And, in between, circles defined by raindrops or whatever falls from the sky punctuate the tapestry. Even the wind fits quite snugly into the package of this one bristling moment with room to spare.
In a kayak, existence is a verb, the reflection of a shadow caught in the act of not doing. As the wind and the waves arise and dissolve, it is impossible to hold on to any sound or image. Each plop and shush is another note being swallowed by the future. Through it all, the elegance of being centered, afloat, and fully present is complete unto itself.
My senses remind me that, right now, there is no problem. There is no need to apologize for my existence or proclaim my presence with arrogance. As I move, my wake dissolves behind me. As my paddle cuts the water, there is no need to create a splash or a sigh. I am honored just to be alive, basking in vulnerability like all of us, at the mercy of the elements.
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Roger Guest is a student of the great Tibetan Buddhist master, Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche. He has been practicing and teaching meditation for over 50 years. We are sharing the following excerpt from his next book, Listening Mind, with his permission. Roger is scheduled to lead a Kayaking retreat in July 2025 at Karmê Chöling retreat center in Vermont.
You can email him at [email protected]
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