The Three Refuges: Coyote Eyes

<----Before The Cold: near the summit of Black Cap

New Hampshire winter approaches: 10-degrees outside this morning, at 5. It's cold enough for snow, but, a warm spell melted the early accumulation. My running trails are once again cleared of snow and relatively ice free, right to the tippety-top of the 3,000-footers. It's funny to see the unnatural white ribbons of snow on the ski slopes, as if someone has painted only the parts that skiers will use with a giant paintbrush. Giant snow guns rudely blast the white stuff throughout the night, imposing early winter upon the otherwise unassuming mountain.

As a skier, I won't complain. But, each mountain run might very well be my last of the season. Looking out the window this morning, the stars still shined in a blanket of deep velvety blue. A bluebird morning was dawning. A quick power cup of java later and I was out the door for the Red Tail Trail on Black Cap, which takes me up about 1,500-feet in elevation over about two or three miles to the bald top.

Starting out I wondered if I'd regret not packing extra wind-blockage in my shorts. Brrr... It was a power run right from the start, the cold being motivation enough to warm up. Rising up through the still dark woods, a stunning alpenglow lit up snow-covered Mt. Washington. It was hard not to wax poetic about the beauty of nature: stunning, harsh, spiritual in its revelation. It takes work to capture views like this. That's why I love being out, alone, on my own, only the wind and streams, my footsteps and breathing to accompany me.

Upon the summit the sun was just peeking up over the horizon, views to the Atlantic Ocean muddled only by inversion clouds far off in the distance. As I do frequently on my runs, knowing no one will see me, I bow toward each of the four directions, my last facing the rising sun in the east. Palms together, thumbs touching my nose, I recite each time The Three Refuges:

I take refuge in the Buddha
I take refuge in the Dhamma
I take refuge in the Sangha

It's hard in the stillness and silence that follows these recitations not to let my mind drift to thoughts of my brother. My soul mate, confidant, and best friend, he committed suicide less than a year ago. In these moments I feel as if on the verge of hearing him, a slight tickle forms in my chest. I can sense his presence. He'd love to be in this exact place, by my side...and I wonder if he regrets -- in that way we put living thoughts into dead people -- not having the chance to run up here with me.

I utter his name. It falls on deaf ears. Or does it?

"Dad, are you out there too?"

The cold creeps back in. Running back down I step carefully, in order to avoid patches of ice on the steep rocks. My eyes are watering, not from crying, but from the cold and wind blowing into my face. It happens all winter long. Half-way down, deep into the woods, I detect a movement about forty feet ahead of me on the trail.

A coyote: we both stop in our tracks. We have a good, long look at one another. I'm close enough to look right into his eyes. "Hello there, little one."

The coyote trots off down the same trail I'm on. I begin running again.

Etched in my mind: coyote eyes on a bluebird day.

Live well.