Remember REM’s song, Losing My Religion? I’ve never been a fan of religion, even though I have a strong mystical sense. During grade school I would sneak out to the woods to converse with the trees and angels. I sat in my bedroom reading Emerson, Thoreau, and Castaneda. One of my very favorite passages is in the introduction of the book, The Soul of Rumi, by Colman Barks as he describes fana:
“For this open-air sanctuary without buildings, doctrine, or clergy, the one some of us live in now where the Lord is what is, nothing less than that, the experiment to live without religion, or rather to live in friendship with all religion simultaneously, is the brave American try for freedom and flow: Thoreau’s retreat to Walden Pond, Jake Barnes slipping into old Spanish churches to listen to his thoughts…Huck out on the river at night, R.E.M.’s Michael Stipe up on stage ‘Losing my religion.’
“There are many powerfully inclusive gestures, figures, and journeys that inquire into mystery outside the structure of any belief system. That’s fana.”
Losing my religion these days, is a process of losing all the old, programmed bits, with all sorts of baggage – big and small – I’ve gathered along the way.
At Navarro Beach I met some young hippies who instantly became my friends. They offered to share their campsite since I didn’t have one. Around their campfire late at night I was asked, “Why are you here?” “To take down all my old structures. Undo everything I had in place.” They seemed to understand. I was invited to travel with them for the next day, but realized next morning that wouldn’t work. I was up at six doing yoga on the beach, ready to take off at seven and all I got from their camp was some very loud snoring. We still keep in touch, after having spent only an evening camping on the beach, sharing food and wine, and playing “bones”.
Attachment to a way of life—in fact, losing my judgment about any way of life—
although challenging, is refreshing as well. I am not rushing now. Not accomplishing at the expense of peace of mind. Losing the habit of worry. Not running, scheduling (much – OK maybe I haven’t completely lost that yet), not working so hard. Losing my need to know what to expect and how I’ll end up once I feel old. (Note the operative word: feel. Even though I am old by some standards, I still feel young.) As I lose my material possessions, I occasionally wonder what I’ll do if I wish I’d kept them.
Then I think of the monks in caves, meditating and living on only what was given to them out of the generosity of people and their faith in the support of Life itself. Did they worry about where they’d end up when they got really old?
A new reader tells me I remind him of a writer named Horace Kephart. (Has anyone out there heard of him?) According to this new friend, Horace left his life and family behind to travel solo and live a subsistence life in Appalachia. Must find his writings when I get into internet land. Within his comment on my post was a nudge to lose my fear of animals. He is, of course, referring to my fear of bears and wild cats. I decided to eliminate one leg of this journey due to my fear of camping and hiking alone in the forest in grizzly country, at the height of bear hyperphagia (the period of excessive eating and drinking to fatten for hibernation). It was a tough decision for me. I simply didn’t feel comfortable with it, and realized that, even if it turned out all right, I would not have thoroughly enjoyed my time there because I’d have been constantly on the lookout for danger.
My days of running from danger, high cortisol and adrenalin, ambulances, blood, needles, tubes, and hospitals are done. I’d rather go the easier route this time around. It’s not without a slight pang of loss for what I may be missing. Reminds me of every decision we have to make; there’s always the other decision we could make, and something we choose to go without in order to have the other.
Losing My Fear – of Heights
I didn’t realize I had a fear of heights until recently when I decided to take a hike called The Sierra Buttes Rim Trail. It wasn’t a long hike – only 2.5 miles each way. I thought it would be perfect for a Sunday stroll (and it was!). 
There is a 1500 ft. elevation gain over the 2.5 miles up to a lookout. The scenery all along was gorgeous, the sun shining, and yellowing leaves rustling in a fall breeze. As I climbed higher the views were humbling. I hadn’t realized that the “lookout” up there consists of a series of about 200 metal steps with railings leading up to a small, square tower that looks like a kitchen inside. It’s locked, and I can only surmise it was installed for the comfort of the five intrepid souls who decided to build this thing.
This is where the fear of heights kicked in for me. I had my cell phone (camera) in my left hand and held the rail with my right as I started up the first flight of 45 steps. I noticed a bit of vertigo when I looked around at the beautiful views around and below me, and decided I would need to focus directly on each individual step as I ascended. The wind got stronger as I went up. I had to stop mid-flight and gingerly, while body-hugging the rail in a much too desperate manner, put my phone in my zipper pocket so that I could hold the rails with both hands. My hiking hat with its five-inch brim had to be stashed in my pack because I actually thought it could act as a sail and blow me right off of the structure. So I very, verrrrry, slowly sat down on a step, removed my pack and tightly-cinched hat, stuffed the latter into the former, slipped back in to the pack, and proceeded to turn back around for the remainder of the climb. This process took a good 10 minutes—an eternity at that moment.
On I went, not without random thoughts of turning back. There were several flights of steps until finally, I reached The Rock. Here were signatures carved into the stone, of visitors over the decades who were rightfully proud to have made it to this spot. I continued on. I made it up to the very top and walked around the “kitchen” in the style of Inspector Jacques Clouseau with my back against the building, inching along sideways, like I was searching for a gunman around each corner. 
I couldn’t help but feel a little dweebie when I saw a couple casually walking around up there with a puppy under one arm (Ho! Animal cruelty!), so I made my way back down to The Rock. Relieved to sit, I scooched up to its autographed face and, although I wasn’t carrying my good knife, (I did have a tiny one in my pack that I usually use to slice apples), I shallowly scratched the surface with my name and date alongside the others who most certainly had better knives and more patience.
Losing My Fear – of Bears????
That blog must wait for another day since I haven’t lost it yet (my fear of bears), but I will consider. It doesn’t help that I called my daughter in Alaska for advice. “Should I be scared?” All she said is, “Just don’t run up on a Grizzly. They’re monsters.” She texted me this photo she’d taken only 2 days before, outside her cabin in Healy, AK. Now there’s a woman who should write a book.
