Three Self-Portraits (Tiny Hills)

On August 31, I ambled my way to the highest point in Rhode Island: Jerimoth Hill, accessible via a 1/10 mile trail that ascends a whopping ten total vertical feet. (Friends of mine joked – “Surely Federal Hill is the highest point in the state.” Natch.) Having both Mount Mansfield in Vermont and 31 miles of the AT in the previous two weeks, it was a trifle – I was there to tick a box in the list of New England’s highest points.

But it turned out to be a bit more emotional than I anticipated. I sat on the little rock, festooned with a helpful cairn, and snapped the first of what would end up being three self-portraits over the next month. There was a trail book in a steel strongbox on the rock as well, and in it I wrote: “We are not crushed by mountains, but suffocated by tiny hills.”

Today I’m thinking of Carol and another recently deceased seminary friend, the redoubtable Bill Bradford. Bill was known by many as “the badass chaplain,” and he did indeed completely own his chosen vocation. Bill had depths of compassion that most of us will never begin to reach. He often quoted Paul Tillich: “The first duty of love is to listen,” and he was above all else a man who knew how be present to the sick, the poor, the oppressed.  He will be missed.

My portraits: grieving, waiting, pushing back – against the tiny hills.

“Brahman at Black Spruce Pond”

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Draft copy – (c) 2016 Jace Paul. No unauthorized use or reproduction permitted.

Brahman at Black Spruce Pond

The Ranger warned me:

“Don’t hike alone, or…” –
– or what?

I might grapple with a mother bear?

I may crack my head on an erratic, or

drown in the river, or

struck by the arm of a dying tree?

 

This petrifying fear of life limned –

What wasted wonder,

If I hit the ground, I’m ready to begin.

To kvetch because I might go under

away from the fussing eyes

of the Proper Custodians of Demise –

What wasted wonder!

 

How welcome – hear this – to be unfurled

as a cradle of moss;

to link up with the soul of an infant pine, skyward climbing

and know this: my light would finally magnified

And justified, the meager flames done starving on bare survival

unbound to fly across

the floor of the world.

 

I have no breath for calamity,

To fall, to feed the ferns and trees

Would be to die as who I lived to be.