Having grown up in Canada, and gotten used to Thanksgiving in October, I had nothing special planned yesterday for my first American Thanksgiving. I didn’t even take a moment to stop and think about what I was thankful for. Instead, that was for today.

It was another lovely day in Ojai, so I decided to try a hike up to Nordhoff peak. I knew it would be challenging (I’m out of uphill hiking shape), but longed for the little moment of peace and solitude I knew I could have up there.

I set out early, with plenty of water, a snack and my trusty hiking pole. Immediately, I knew it would be one of those days, a day of chatter-filled mind. Here I was blessed to be living in a place with precious, 80-degree days at the end of November, hiking a trail with the most stunning, vista-dominating mountains one could imagine, but my head would have none of it. It instead wanted to be mischievously stubborn today.

There were moments — I’d round a corner and glimpse the vastness of the waiting sky, or look to the gem-blue of Lake Casitas in the distance — when the mind stopped and all that was left were waves of Awareness; precious Awareness, rippling over me, the earth, sky, air and bathing all in bliss and fullness.

But mostly the mind chattered. It ran to the past, the future and every corner of the present. It thought about what it should be doing with its life, its next shopping trip, or what car it should get when it trades the old one in. The mundane and divine played together as thoughts in this head, just as they play together outwardly, whether as birds quietly circling each other, dust devils tasting sand, or the sky receiving ever-reaching peaks.

When I saw Nordhoff in the distance, and it’s abandoned fire-tower marker, I noticed the very tiny, brightly colored shirts or jackets of two people. The first reaction this overactive mind had was really hoping those idiots would finish their dilly-dallying before I got there!

It was not to be. I reached the peak exhausted, saying hello with a genuine smile (the noisy mind can’t always obscure the happy recognition of Self in Other), and yet the two yammered. I climbed the fire tower and just wanted to rest. I just wanted to stare quietly at my friends, my green-brown mosaic of mountains laying out towards the horizon.

I did get lost in their facets, every crevice, angle, or tree, each tenderly whispering: “here let me take one thought from you” until, by their grace, I was still and free, floating with my rocky friends to the sky. And then I’d be slapped back to mind as the two debated where to eat, how much air to let out of their tires for the ride down, or the issues they were dealing with at work.

Eventually the noisemakers left and I had my moment of solitude. I came down the steep tower stairs and sat at the picnic table to have my little snack. And then weirdly, as the contrast of quiet to the previous noisiness rushed in, I think I began missing them!

I am not good at meditation. I am not good at stilling thoughts, or good at mindfulness. But what I am sometimes good at is seeing fullness and truth in everything. So as I sat there and finished my tasty snack, still resting in the afterglow of physical exhaustion, in the waves of beauty surrounding and infusing, I became thankful for everything.

There was gratitude for those two who left, for the sky, sun and hills, for the curious bird floating above, the rock and craggy trees down the path, and most of all, there was loving gratitude for the noisy mind.

Yes, it is true that with a quiet mind it is often easier to see Truth, to have experiences of peace, bliss and completion. With a quiet mind comes creativity, comes energy, with a quiet mind fear, longing and seeking drop away.

But what a supreme blessing to see that a noisy mind is also Whole, is also That. What precious sacredness to see that thoughts are nothing other than Awareness, dancing for itself, loving itself in that billionth of an inch of separation interrupting Union. Thoughts are facets of Life, with its countless arms tapping you on your shoulders throughout your time, begging you to look into all its faces, asking you to see what they are made of, what the Thinker is, and to finally admit that they are both the same divine.

I have not seen, felt, or found anything that is not That, including thoughts. And for that I am deeply, preciously, achingly thankful for.

Today I walked the trails again, as I do most mornings. It was a beautiful day, with a calm stillness infusing every rock, shrub, breathe of air, and happily hopping cricket. The sky was a pure, cloudless blue, so vibrant that one glance could quickly remove any over-trodden trail of aimless thoughts.

I decided to combine two of my favorite hikes, with two viewpoints and two loops. Someone else must have had the same idea, because I encountered Mr. Orange three separate times on my walk today. I had seen this mountain biker before: an older, lighter-skinned version of myself with a grayer yet similar goatee. Every time I see him, I wonder how his brightly colored shirt (you can guess the color) always remains so crisp and sweat-free compared to mine.

The first time Mr. Orange rode towards me I stepped aside to give him room and he flashed a warm smile and bright eyes and yelled out “Hi-hi and thanks!”. The second time, I heard gravel crunching behind me and turned to see him huffing and puffing, standing on his pedals to win the hill. He smiled a bit and nodded this time. A bit more quiet, a bit more cold, but still friendly.

The third time, I could see him riding down a faraway grade, and noticed he saw me. Even from that distance I could see his energy contract slightly. Perhaps, like me, he was enjoying the solitude, the beautiful day, and sometimes having to acknowledge Other interrupts that enjoyment. When he passed, he just looked straight ahead.

Alone again on the trail, I wondered who the real Mr. Orange was. Was he one of the three versions I saw today? Or was he something deeper? What was his core, the truer form of his energy? I think that, like everyone, his natural state is closer to the initial warmth and openness he displayed. Every encounter subsequent was just our artificial layers — awkwardness of repeatedly acknowledging the same stranger — covering up the purity beneath.

His changes felt like a gate slowly closing off a trail leading to the most beautiful, full and undisturbed mountain. If I focused on the gate, my energy would probably also contract, my gate would close, and all that would be left would be two closed gates exchanging forced pleasantries on the trail. But if I looked to the mountain at his core, at my core, at the core of all Life, I could see that the gate was absolutely nothing. Whether it was closed or open, it did not matter. One could see through it anytime one chose to. One could focus on the mountain.

We re-create ourselves moment to moment and rarely are aware of it. I saw three different Mr. Oranges today. They were in the same physical form, on the same bike, and perhaps they were pulled from a familiar superset of thoughts and habits, but each time I saw him, I saw a different Mr. Orange. Little do we know, that at any time we can choose to stop reforming ourselves,  stop pulling our thoughts and identity up from the depths. When we stop, all that is left is the Mountain.

I was feeling the isolation of Ojai last night and this morning; the isolation one feels when moving to a new town, knowing no one, and here, amplified by the smallness of Ojai.

Another day another hike. I went out this morning and as I walked, the filter of thoughts tinted everything. The trail was too dusty and dry. The mountains surrounding everywhere cut me off, making me feel more alone. And the sun, with it’s hot cold stare, was too harsh.

But then, the more I walked uphill and more exhausted I grew, the less energy I had to keep alive this separation we all are addicted to. At one point, a floating bird overhead cast a shadow on the trail heading right towards me. Before I could think, I already imagined that shadow piercing my heart, and all resistance fell away.

I looked out to the same mountains, sun and dirt, and the filter was gone. My heart was no longer physical, merely beating in my chest, but an energy starting from there and soon easily seen to have no bounds, no source or destination.

My eyes watered, even in that dry, warm dustiness, as the Heart welcomed everything: the mountains, which it was, the sun, which it was, and the isolation, which arose and fell tenderly from it. An embrace with arms unimaginably large, big enough for the entire world, radiated outwards from no center.

The boundary between the personal and infinite can get rough, like two tectonic plates abrading against each other. Stay too long in that fault and you will get shaken up into darkness. Choose one or the other and live; live in the familiar bounds or live in boundless Love.

I went for a hike in the hills today. I marveled at how bright the sky was and the sections cordoned off by wispy suggestions of past planes. At one point I stopped at the base of a steep mountain and looked straight up and suddenly I was not there. The rocky earth and gentle blue looked back only at themselves.