On Listening
Last weekend, I went on a spontaneous adventure with a friend to Listening Point, which is the lakeside property of Minnesota author Sigurd Olson (1899-1982). In addition to being a writer, Olson was also a conservationist who helped to draft the 1964 Wilderness Act, which protects federally designated wilderness lands throughout the United States. The Listening Point Foundation works to preserve Sigurd Olson’s legacy and his philosophy toward nature. The Foundation hosts events throughout the year focusing on educating people about Sig’s life and work.
We attended a sunset hike at Listening Point. We started our time in Sig’s cabin, lit by candlelight while enjoying hot beverages and sugar cookies baked with Sig’s wife’s recipe (she, too, understood that the secret to a good sugar cookie is almond extract). We listened to a highlight reel history of Sig’s life before setting off into the twilight woods for a brief hike down to the shoreline. With the sun asleep beneath the horizon line, the temperature dropped below 20 degrees Fahrenheit, but we were bundled well, and we tramped through the newly-fallen snow and out onto the ice.
The nimbostratus clouds diffused the light of the waxing gibbous moon, brightening the night in the way that only moonlight on fresh snow can produce. Our guide instructed us to walk across the ice and find a spot to be silent. It is, after all, called Listening Point for a reason. So I wandered away from the group, my hiking boots crunching over the layer of snow that covered the ice. I found a spot that felt right and lay down, looking up at the gray sky, snowflakes dusting my cheeks. I wondered if Sigurd ever came out here to lay on the ice and listen, or if he remained practical and vertical.
Out there on the ice, I thought about Sigurd Olson, and I thought about my grandpa. I wonder if my grandpa ever heard of Sigurd Olson or read any of his books. I think he would’ve found Sig to be a kindred spirit. They were both outdoorsmen, both found connection to spirituality in the wilderness. I only have a few, hazy pre-Alzheimer’s memories of my grandpa, and most of them involve being outside hiking or sledding. I inherited respect, wonder, and awe for nature from my grandpa; I inherited a sense of comfort and closeness to God under the sky and surrounded by water and trees. If I could, I would live my life on my back on the surface of a frozen lake, staring up at the sun, the clouds, the moon, the birds, the rain.
Alas, my toes, legs, and cheeks (all four of them) began to numb, and I needed to get up and return to the group. I rejoined my friend who had sensed I needed a moment alone with the frozen Point. I’ve been abiding on that moment, taking it with me in my heart and letting it feed my creativity and motivation this week. Sig was right: we must protect the wilderness so that it remains possible to slow down and listen… to ourselves, to our past and present, to nature.
Moonlight at Listening Point
