Finding a "thin place" on a hillside ☀️
Slowing down to access the sacred.🧎
It was the autumn of 2002 when I laced up my hiking boots to join my high school Outdoor Education class on a three-day backcountry trip in Frontenac Provincial Park near Kingston, Ontario.
I was 18 years old at the time and had spent a good majority of my upbringing playing outdoors. Once or twice a year, my family enjoyed hiking in the Gatineau Hills near my hometown of Kanata, especially in the fall, when the trees turned to a rainbow palette of leaves in all colours but blue. But I hadn’t ever hiked to a campsite. Little did I know that backcountry hiking would eventually become my favourite way to experience the natural spaces of our planet. That trip to Frontenac gave me a taste of what was to come.
It also opened for me a portal into a new relationship with the outdoors.
In Lights to Guide Me Home, I describe my relationship with the forest and wetlands behind my childhood home. From my doorstep, I had a combination of total suburbia and an expanse of trees in which I could run, bike and ski like a country-dwelling kid. And though I can pinpoint a few moments of bliss that transpired in that forest — moments where I found myself communing with nature in a profound, perhaps sacred, way — I’m not sure my childhood mind could fully grasp it. I was a newly-minted adult when I had an experience in Frontenac Provincial Park that brought me to what I’ve heard others, in particular Bishop Michael Curry, describe as a “thin place” — one of those rare moments when we as humans are touched by the Divine.
I remember we had done some orienteering activities in the morning (I envy my orienteering skills back then!) before our group split into smaller hiking groups. Toward the end of the day, somehow I ended up alone with Sue, the adult chaperone on the trip apart from my teacher, Jim. She had a solid outdoor skill set herself and had been a delightful presence on our previous paddling trips. Being the partner of another teacher at my school, I had actually known her for a long time, since my mother had started working at that school when I was just six years old. All this goes to say, I was in the presence of an older, yet kindred spirit — someone I admired and trusted.
I can’t remember how it happened but we found ourselves not too far from our campsite, still near the trail but on an open part of the forest where a grassy hillside was illuminated by the perfect, golden sunlight of late afternoon. At first, we sat, eating snacks and rehydrating. And then Sue lay down in the grass with her head resting on her pack to bask in the warmth of the last remaining sunlight.
To this point, I think my inclination had always been to do something in Nature, whether it was playing, paddling or hiking. It struck me as unusual, for a moment, that Sue would simply lie down, face in the sun, to receive the Earth’s energy, the Sun’s warmth.
Quietly, I lay down next to her and rested my head on my backpack. I felt a small rock jutting into my back, so I shifted my body until it nestled comfortably in the grass. Closing my eyes, I placed my hands on my belly and slowed my breathing. I felt the heat of the sun sinking into my black hiking shirt. The smell of fallen leaves crisping in the Sun permeated the air. I listened to birdsong. I listened to the wind. I could hear Sue breathing gently. And, soon enough, we were both asleep.
I don’t know how long we were sleeping, but I remember waking gradually, aware of my slow, rhythmic breathing, and never, ever wanting the moment to end. In the in-between, barely awake yet aware I was no longer sleeping, I found myself in a thin place. All was radiant. I was at peace. And I no longer felt separate from anything around me.
I have carried this particular thin place with me now for over twenty years and often return to it in my mind, like watching a movie that evokes the same emotions each time. It was an experience that demonstrated the ways we as humans can commune with Nature, can feel at one with the land. My body resting in that grass may as well have been a rock sitting on the hillside. That experience was also the first time I truly surrendered to the healing power of the Great Outdoors. I remember just how tired I was that day, from a poor night in the tent, yes, but also from an entire childhood of activities, commitments, and extracurriculars with inadequate rest. I woke up a changed person. We now know that science can back up what many of us can claim to have experienced for ourselves — that time spent in nature can heal and strengthen body, mind and spirit.
There on that hillside, the life force that pulses through all living things ran through my own veins. I had to stop long enough for it to make that connection. Had I kept moving, seeking, and doing, I’m not sure I would have gotten to the thin place.
After a minute or two, I propped up onto my elbows and the rustling awoke Sue from her rest. Eventually, we realized we were late and we returned to the campsite. I think I avoided getting into trouble since Sue, the only other chaperone, was also quite late returning. 😉
Yesterday, a friend and I went up Ha Ling peak near Canmore. It was windy and chilly on the summit, so we descended quickly. But by the time we got back to the forested trail, our bodies had warmed up from the movement and the air was still. Sun shone sideways through the trees, casting light on an undisturbed patch of snow. Out of nowhere, I decided I just needed to sit down, to let the Earth hold me. So I did. I lay back onto the slope and it formed a natural seat for my body. I stared up at the pine trees that swayed gently. I took in the deep quietude of Winter and noticed how blue the sky was.
I reached out to touch that thin place.
And then I hoisted myself out of the slope to continue down through the sun-splotched path, fuelled by the wonder that met me because I took the time to receive it.
What’s caught my attention lately… ✨
My latest read, Oliver Burkeman’s Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals, has been providing me with a fresh perspective on the topic of time. It’s more than a fresh perspective; it’s a life-altering reality check about how we can choose to view our finite time on this planet. I can’t recommend this book enough.
I wrote something: ✍️
The Art of Apprehensive Adventuring is a recent piece I wrote for Adventure Journal about my life as a “toe-dipper” when it comes to adventure, and how that all came head-to-head when I met, and fell in love with, the most adventurous spirit I know.
Check these out too… 🙌
Lights to Guide Me Home: A Journey Off the Beaten Track in Life, Love, Adventure and Parenting - my memoir
The Wonders That I Find - my children’s book
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