A reminder to stay present rests on the camp kitchen window sill.

“Now is Here.” That’s the advice our friend, the late artist Fred Marchman, scratched into a tiny rectangle of clay.  The creation may have been Fred’s way of doodling, not unlike the musings he wrote on his many block prints. The saying, which I sometimes transpose to “here is now,” hangs in the kitchen window of our camp house, reminding me to stay present and pay attention to nature’s gifts.

“Now is Here,” surfaced in my mind on a recent five-day canoe trip through Alabama’s Mobile-Tensaw Delta, a broad river valley terminating at the head of Mobile Bay and home to some of the most diverse wildlife in Alabama. My husband Lynn teaches a wilderness medicine elective to fourth-year medical students, training them to respond to natural disaster and humanitarian crises. The course culminates with a week-long paddle in the Delta, where students practice their skills without the modern comforts of home.

Lynn leads the expedition, following paper maps to navigate and tracking the water ways with a GPS for backup.

I went along for the ride this time, in part to lend experience, and in part, because one of the joys of a river trip, is disconnecting from the constraints of time and technology – being fully present with nature. On our very first paddle, twenty years ago, that meant putting away your analog watch and living on river time. Today, with smart phones doubling as cameras, living fully present, at a minimum, requires turning off one’s cellular data, disabling the apps and wireless accoutrements accompanying the phone – not always an easy task for those of us who check our devices more than we care to admit.

Mother nature greeted us with clear, blue skies and bald cypress trees brimming with spring color.

From day one of the expedition, it was easy to see how many members of our team couldn’t fully disconnect. Smartphones were omnipresent. I was no exception, turning on my cellular data when in range of a tower, to check for an important email I feared I would miss. Instead, I felt as if I had cheated myself. We were violating Asteya, one of yoga’s Yamas, or ethical guidelines. Asteya translates to non-stealing. In this instance, it felt as if we were robbing ourselves from being squarely present with nature, stealing our teammates’ rights to a digital free week, and failing to pay full attention to one another.  While being tuned into the device, rather than the river, who missed the cacophony of scolding ospreys as we paddled close to their nests? How about the the splash of the water moccasin as it slipped from the tree into the river? Did digital distraction steal the natural sounds of the laughing gulls, flocked together and mocking us from the shoreline?

A young gator sun himself at the edge of small creek.

It will be another year before I spend a full five days in the Delta. My yoga teacher often uses the quote, “We can’t go back and start over, but we can begin again.”  This time, I’ll forgive myself for stealing from the experience. For compassion is also part of practicing yoga. I’ll begin again, learn from the discomfort, put away my own device and strongly discourage others from bringing technology as well. I’ll slip everyone a piece a paper with the saying “Now is Here” and in the true meaning of being present, we’ll watch, undistracted, as bald eagles soar against the backdrop of a bright, blue sky.