The Buddhist in Me

I hear the ancient Bristlecone Pines whisper: “All Things Must Pass”

The Sentinels in the Schulman Grove atop the White Mountains of California spindle skyward, appearing to intertwine with the Milky Way. The trees were saplings together some 3,500 years ago. The tree on the right died about 500 years ago; the one on the left is still living. (Photo: ©Craig K. Collins)

I am alone at 10,000 feet in the White Mountains of California, sitting on a flat rock, eyes closed, meditating, and trying — so far unsuccessfully — to empty my mind of all thought, internal chatter and worry.

The setting sun, warm upon my face, is casting an amber glow on the weathered, honeyed trunks of a pair of ancient bristlecone pines known as the Sentinels. I feel their presence behind my right shoulder as they spindle skyward.

These siblings sprouted at roughly the same time some 3,500 years ago. The nearest is dead, having succumbed 500 years previous, leaving its partner to carry on. Yet its hulking, twisting skeleton still strikes a majestic pose as it has done for the past five centuries and will likely continue for perhaps several centuries more. It stands as a reminder that all things must pass — even seemingly ageless bristlecones.

Together, these trees have experienced nearly 1.3 million sunsets. I am honored to share this most recent one with them.

The Sentinels catching the final rays of another day. Together, they have experienced nearly 1.3 million sunsets. (Photo: ©Craig K. Collins)