On the summery shores of a placid Lake Michigan, still and clear except a wandering sailboat close to the horizon, a friend brought up The Snow Leopard by Peter Matthiessen. I had been searching for accompaniment on the impending journey. I didn't know much of the book, only that it was nonfiction and slightly Zen. Later, walking home with the setting sun, gentle lacustrine wind kissing my shoulders, I looked deep into my reading list--there it was written, with a message next to it: (read when u get to Chi).
When and why I left myself this note I cannot recall. My reaction was more suspicion than satisfaction, for validated foresight brings about a strange sensation. What is random coincidence, and what is inevitable? How dominant is my instinct, my blanketed subconscious? Something about this book called to me before my arrival. It spoke again in the early days. I have learned to listen.
The Snow Leopard is a travelogue of an expedition to northwestern Nepal in 1973. The impetus was GS, a biologist, wanting to study the autumn mating practices of Himalayan blue sheep. Matthiessen joined for the journey rather than the destination. Aside from the sheep are the Buddhist monasteries he hoped to pilgrimage and, notably, a potential glimpse at the elusive snow leopard. At that time few outsiders had ever seen one; the solitary predators stalk the most high, most remote swaths of Asia, supremely camoflagued and adept and shy. They are a silent phantom on which wonder can be projected--an incarnation of the unknown, the omniscient, the unattainable.
GS, Matthiessen, and their sherpa porters set out in late summer for the glacial slopes of Dolpo. The narrative is chronicled by daily entry--I began reading near the end of September, so the days aligned almost exactly with mine 50 years later. The air grew colder and the burdens grew heavier both here and there. Our rhythm synchronized as I, before concluding my day, would read of the splendors and tribulations my distant companions had lived, and reflect on mine from this small corner of the world.
Before long I could hardly separate the story on the pages from the story in my mind. The overlap was uncanny--like I was opening a portal that transported me to my own thoughts and memories. The physical landscape, its jagged cliffs and sparse villages and endless sky, enmeshed with that I had passed in Ladakh years ago. Talk of the snow leopard, that specter cloaked in spotted mystery, was a manifestation of my personal fascination. The highs and lows, the tortuous yet hypnotizing voyage of novelty, suffering, growth, fear, snowy passes and shaded crevices, it all blurred in an enigmatic familiarity. The words eerily echoed the murmur of my spirit.
Much of the book wrestles with peace and tranquility. This may be found--but can it be kept? Retaining harmony is a formidable task in the face of our constant turmoil. The onrush of sedentary problems, gaining in magntitude as Matthiessen departed from Shey Gompa at the foot of Crystal Mountain, prompts a regret for not holding the prior moment, for moving on to imminent distractions. This is a difficult reality to swallow. Was the journey not to gain something everlasting? The apparent futility of permanance, of solidifying a fleeting essence, burns alongside the unquenchable longing for answers.
Aldous Huxley writes in Brave New World that "feeling lurks in that interval of time between desire and its consummation." The world is trending towards instant gratification--eliminatation of the discomfort of waiting. After months of sleeping on frosty earth, after miles through the harshest, most inhospitable terrain, Matthiessen never does see the snow leopard. We can strive, but there is no guarantee of satisfaction.
If understanding is transitory or, worse, illusory, what does the journey accomplish? What justifies the slow, opaque, moiling process? What is the snow leopard?
I search for a central force to gravitate around. The push is the purpose for now, I think. As Matthiessen and company trudged onward, chasing goals overt and not so much, I too drive forward into unseen territory. Matthiessen wrote: "God offers man the choice between repose and truth: he cannot have both." I was drawn to this book of bodily and spiritual travail by some power, for some reason. There remain mountains to cross during the long journey home. I'm not sure how it ends.
No comments:
Post a Comment