The somber tones of the forest, hard-edged like claws, bids me to walk more carefully with each step. By following the well-worn routes only invites bruises. So I avoid the icy places, finding instead the grainy crusted snow off trail. No one is there to follow, only quiet hollows and ledges, drained of snow. The mood here is like a water color wash in fog, where a mystic thought might suddenly intrude. I am no longer dissecting the reasons behind the delicate dance of change--just letting the scenery tell it's own story in it's own time. By forcing the mood only results in carving up the experience, killing the original impulse of joy. Therefore, each traveler takes away only what is given by chance; perhaps with a gift of awakening: feeling the way, expecting wonder and surprise, waiting the moment's unfolding-- for the experience has an uncanny substance of magic to it, whereby the deeper meanings can populate the mind. I wait for deliverance from a hidden source, while always traveling with an open heart.
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