by Philip Steinbacher
A hiker I am not. I enjoy being outdoors, and have a certain penchant for nature. The cozy glow of sun, wafting breezes, and the vista of vibrant green trees have always paradoxically calmed and invigorated me. I don’t mind taking good, long walks now and again. In fact, I like them. Still, I am not a hiker, and had someone suggested I would discover one of those “deeply simple” truths about my own life while hiking I would have responded with little more than a skeptical wince. What? I’d be too busy panting to be profound.
The island of Kauai—Hawaii’s “Garden Island”—has a Secret Beach. Though unmarked, it’s rather easy to find and doesn’t seem to be much of a secret. It is, however, a gem among gems—one of the most dynamic shoreline spots on an island known worldwide for its striking, luminous beaches. Secret Beach stretches out along Kauai’s northern coast and its long, sandy vista is reached via a hillside trail. The off-road to Secret Beach is cratered and unpaved, not unlike the roads to most of Kauai’s beaches. To get to this sandy treasure you park at the end of the rutted road and trek down a short but steep trail.
I’d made this hike to Secret Beach the first time I visited Hawaii a few years back. Now, on my latest vacation, I was hiking the trail for the second time. From the top the trail feels as if it goes straight down. It’s crowded with roots and branches, knotted undergrowth, and slick, wet mud that plasters the ground beneath a canopy of tropical trees and plants. Clad in shorts and flip flops, and armed with a bit of determination, I started down the path, remembering with every step the first time I’d made this troublesome trek.• • •
When I was a toddler, my teenaged sister was often charged with babysitting me. The two of us walked a great deal when I was under her care, and I remember being towed to and fro on her many adolescent outings around town. Clearly it was a drag dragging me along, because what I actually remember most from these frequent jaunts was the talking-to I got: “Watch where you’re going, not where you’ve been!” This probably happened after one or more of the dozen times I tripped over a crack in the sidewalk or slammed into the back of her legs after she’d stopped walking, and I didn’t. I heard this so often, in fact, I honestly grew up believing it was one of those common and sensible proverbs, like “A penny saved, a penny earned.” What did I know?
As I grew, I turned my sister’s words into a life strategy, a bullet point on my “how to” list for living. Watch where you’re going, not where you’ve been. Never look back, the mantra demanded, but instead keep your eye on where you’re headed. The problem with this strategy, however, was that it permitted no attention on where I was at the time. Watching the future was no more a safeguard against tripping up in the present than was keeping my attention fixed on where’d I’d just been. How could I get to my future if I was so busy eyeballing it that I didn’t know where I already was? Taking my sister’s well-meant advice and morphing it into a life motto must have seemed harmless because I allowed it to become one of those endless tapes that ran in the background of everything I did. “Watch where you’re going, not where you’ve been…”• • •
No doubt the tape was running the first time I’d hiked the trail to Kauai’s Secret Beach. The trip, I remember clearly, was treacherous, and the reward for the trek—that is, being on the beach itself—was flavored by the experience of the hike itself…or my belief about the experience: watch where you’re going, not where you’ve been. Was it any wonder I slipped and tripped my way down the steep slope? Was it any wonder I’d practically hated the journey?
This second time hiking the trail, however, was different. The “behind” was not filled with irritation, nor the “ahead” with uncertainty. In fact, it’s fair to say I wasn’t aware of the “behind” or “ahead” but was only considering the moment. Or was I even considering it? Wasn’t the present moment just…the present moment? Did it even require my consideration? I was the present—experiencing the trip down the rutted path—and actually enjoying it. What was the difference between the first time I’d made this journey and the second? What was the difference except for the fact that in the interim I’d completed The Avatar Course?
Many years ago I worked in an office where an associate had a yellow sticky note posted to her computer with the puzzling inscription: AOT, LOT, DMW. I later learned this cryptic message stood for “Arrive on time. Leave on time. Drink more water.” I liked that. A subliminal reminder to help my coworker keep on track. I borrowed her approach, but my note said simply BHN, and I posted mine on my refrigerator. BHN. Be here now. Great advice, as almost everyone would agree, but the problem was I had no means for doing it. Any attempt I’d made to “be here now” was just that—an attempt. I was so busy trying to be here now (or trying not to be there now) I had no attention left for being. (Never mind that the only time or place I remembered to try to be here now was when I was standing in my kitchen staring at my fridge.)
I’d often been asked what I saw as the most important benefit I got from doing The Avatar Course. It came to me on this second hike to Secret Beach. My “deeply simple” revelation. This is what Avatar gave me: the ability—integrated into rather than stuck onto me like a note on the fridge—to be here now. The esoteric turned everyday. I wasn’t watching where I was going or where I’d been. I was just being. Here. Now. How had it happened that I’d spent so much of my life not doing this?
The poet in me likes to believe this is the real secret of Secret Beach. Maybe this is not true for everyone, but for me the trip became a checkpoint for how I viewed my life before doing Avatar and how I viewed it after. I’d found the gift of being present in my own life. (Sticky note optional.)
Philip Steinbacher, Hawaii
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