Solitude

I stop and reconsider, whether to go ahead or change course by way of another route. Here in the deep shadows of this ravine, the chill seems to suggest going ahead, moving upwards to the sheltered south-side slope, where the warm sunlight breathes. For up there, the mountain's face is bathed in a yellow glow, still unclothed of snow, and its raptured beauty holds me tight. But I see the faint outlines of a trail which wanders along the cliffs, high above the sunless bottom where now I stand. So, I choose another way instead, noting that the trail has been traveled too many times by other minds, filled with too many memories of crowds and city noise.

I prefer more rugged ground to climb, something that makes me feel more alive, off the trail and into the woodland solitude. Another story waits to be told. And by shaking the fog of sleep from my brain, the old smooth trail is left behind. So, I search for spaces and holes in the brush and dead fall barricades. Above are the steep slopes that stretch across the upper view. But first, the fallen trees become my bridges to the places just below; while the fields of devils club are spaces where secret paths are found; then, with some relief, I reach the blue-grey rocks, which are roads that lead to the high cliff dreams.

And now, on the edge of this bench, high above the bay, I look out far along the vastness of the world with its crystalline hue, exposed to the wind that blurs the view. I am like the tree, solitary and free, that has rooted itself deeply in the rock, not to be shaken by the storms that come at this time of year. We both will survive.

For in this place, within this solitude of thought, I hear and see and know the nameless, unconditioned freedom that this moment brings. I feel what children feel in their playful episodes: not measuring joy or following outworn truths--but singing new songs and enjoying the gift of life, never looking back or worrying for things to come.