Clouds & the Trickster
In spring and summer, I spend all my time with plants. In autumn, my focus shifts to fungi and mushrooms. And in winter, I sit with the rocks.
Plants and fungi speak about rooting yourself to a place, but rocks take it to another level. What does it mean to sit somewhere, unmoving and unflinching for millennia? How does it feel to see your neighbors grow, bloom, and send off their seeds while you stay constant in your form? What does it mean to endure all temperatures and forms of weather? What is it like to be so close to the embodiment of immortality? I feel like this is foundational insight that we don’t often get the chance to experience anymore. We spend most of our days inside climate-controlled dwellings that allow us to access light and warmth whenever we want by turning on a switch. And when we are outside, we are usually moving - commuting, walking, playing. There’s very little time for stillness and thinking about rocks.
So starting around winter solstice, I carve out time each day to sit with the rocks. Since most living things are underground or hibernating at this point in the year, my rock sitting has led me to develop a practice of watching the sky. I set out before the sun gets up, finding my spot on the ridge of a mountain in the dark and settling in to watch the sun rise. While the sun is fascinating (and a welcome sensation in the winter temperatures), it’s not my primary focus for being up so early. I plant myself for the sunrise because because I like to watch the way it influences the sky and clouds.
Something about the interplay of the sun rising behind a mountain makes an incredible display of colors in the sky, all of which are absorbed by the clouds. It’s like a laser show. The clouds light up orange, red, pink, purple in such a vibrant way, it’s almost unbelievable. When the sun finally makes its appearance, the clouds fade to white and the blue mountains start to sing. The light show is mesmerizing, but my favorite thing to watch is the texture and changing density of the clouds. There are some mornings that the whole mountain range is visible and the clouds float above the peaks to catch the light. But other mornings the clouds are lower, creating one of my favorite interplays of earth and sky. They weave and curl and bounce off of the cliffs, and sometimes I like to imagine it’s akin to the mountains breathing. There are also moments of dense cloud that block out everything, even the sun, even the mountains. All I can see for miles is white.
Lately during these rock sits, I have been thinking about the nature of clouds embodying the archetype of the Trickster. Clouds manage to appear out of nothing and alter the shape of the landscape with their passing presence. They change from transparent to opaque depending on proximity and vantage points. These clusters of gas and moisture also have an incredible power to hide the physical - a sensory trick that can produce some wonderful illusions. They’re able to weave between the hills and settle in the valleys, looking almost like a river running through the sky. And in a world that values what we see with our own eyes, it feels important to note that a cloud passing by can make an entire mountain disappear.
One of the things I see so many people in search of is the absolute, tangible truth. I see this when people talk about their bodies, their religion, their science, their lives. I see people cling to what they perceive as the truth as if it’s going to save them somehow. But what does it mean to be right, anyways? I’ve found in my relationships that the more “right” I am about something, the more the connection deteriorates. This extends beyond human relationships and into our relationship with the more than human world. Thinking I am correct usually serves to isolate myself. In a talk recently, I heard Bayo Akomolafe say that “truth is a strategy, not an arrival point” and it offered me a change in perspective. Like a good Trickster, forcing a disruption to my personal narrative.
I turn my attention back to the clouds, my eyes watching them form out of thin air, growing, moving, and dancing across the sky. But they are not considered alive - it is another facet of the Trickster. I understand the movement can be explained scientifically by wind, temperature, and the earth’s rotation, but there is still undeniable magic to it. Occassionally during my rock sits, someone will find me and join me in watching the clouds, or take pictures to try to save the moment to share later. Their enthusiastic greeting to me starts to soften and slow as they turn their attention to the sky, almost as if they have entered a church during an important sermon. I watch them hang on the clouds’ every word. Eventually they fall silent, letting themselves become consumed by what is unfolding.
While many people aren’t fond of Tricksters, they fulfill an important role: they make us re-evaluate what we know to be true. They cross the boundaries and blur the lines, bending or breaking what rules we are dedicated to following. They offer a change in perspective, albeit usually an unwanted one. What if right was wrong? What if up was down? What if that mountain over there was just to poof disappear? They have a lot of colorful descriptions: dishonest, cunning, foolish, thief, fraud, scoundrel. But I think a more accurate description would be to call them transformers. You cannot encounter a Trickster without gaining a new way of seeing something or being changed somehow. And what’s more, it’s usually a lesson in letting go - of preconceived ideas, of a sense of individualistic self, of how you treat the limits in your life. These things aren’t necessarily a punishment; they can often be an expansion if you look at it with a perspective outside of yourself.
When I watch the clouds roll in and shield the mountains from view, I know I am looking at the world from a fleeting standpoint. The clouds will pass and the landscape I expect to see will continue to be. But for that brief moment in time, my expectations have to be suspended and I allow myself to be swallowed up in what is in front of me. I’m fortunate to live here and practice the acceptance on a regular basis. I think about the tourists that travel a great deal to witness these mountains, only to be greeted with a cloudy day and miles of white nothingness instead. I wonder if they feel disappointment that they aren’t going to see the breathtaking views. I wonder if they feel awe for the transient gift they are witnessing.
I also think about what this relationship between cloud and mountain was before humans were here to witness it. Before time eroded the mountains down to what we know today, how did this impact the way they play together? Their relationship is ancient and natural, and the games they have created together are well practiced at this point. Clouds and mountains are billions of years old while humans are not, meaning they have been at this for longer than I can conceive of. I am an infant as I sit with the rocks, a tiny speck on this earth watching two old gods dance together. My identity as a person feels as fleeting as the moments I am lucky enough to witness.
