I’d come halfway around the mountain to return to a place I’d discovered several days before. Somehow it seemed different, yet still strangely familiar to me then. As I took the final step to the edge of the jutting spur, a mixture of emotions churned in my gut, and a sudden weakness nearly buckled my knees. Gravity was stronger there at the edge. Its pull was practically irresistible. The adrenaline rush steeled my resolve, and I lowered my center of gravity and secured a hold. My gaze drifted down to the valley, and I fought the urge to let my body follow. I took a deep, steadying breath and leaned beyond the edge, feeling the fear and willing myself to accept it.

It would have been easy to surrender to that gravitational pull. With a simple release of that tentative hold, life as I knew it would cease to be, and the perpetual struggle would have been over. It would have required no effort at all. One way or another, everyone had to let go eventually. It was part of life’s cycle. However, it was not yet my time. Learning how to live well was the challenge I faced. The adrenaline rush I felt then, poised at the edge of that stony precipice, made me feel more alive than ever. So I stayed there on that high ledge, clinging to the rocks while staring down into the valley, for no other reason than the sheer thrill of it.

A fine mist condensed in the folds of my poncho, and from the recess of its hood, I watched the silver stream snaking through the chasm. For some reason, I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d been there before, on that ledge looking at that very same view, and that had me ruminating about the possibility of past lives. The notion of reincarnation had always appealed to me. The possible transmigration of the soul and lifetimes of acquired wisdom gave meaning to an often seemingly senseless existence. However, if the choices made in one lifetime informed the conditions of the next, every experience was an opportunity for rebirth, enlightenment, and becoming a fully realized being. While this concept was attractive, I remained skeptical about things that required my belief in their existence. I preferred to focus on what was useful in the present. After all, if one believed in Heaven, which I did not, one had to live the hell out of this life to get there. If one believed in reincarnation, one had to excel in the current life to incarnate into a better station in the next one. Still, if one thought this lifetime was the only one, then one had best live it to the fullest because this is all there is. Either way, the present mattered most; I wouldn’t waste it worrying about the hereafter. I would figure out the afterlife when I got there. I did, however, believe enlightenment was not a thing found once and for all but again and again.

I hadn’t told anyone exactly where I was going or what I was up to. Most people would not have understood. Truthfully, I could not have explained it to them, even if I’d tried, and I certainly didn’t need anyone’s permission or approval. I had simply, by instinct and intuition, followed a natural progression.

A gust of cold wind threatened to dislodge me from my perch, and I pulled back to take refuge in a crack in the rock wall. Like a harbinger of the season’s change, it reminded me that I would soon have to relinquish my ascetic existence and return to life among humans again. Still, that distant world would have to wait a while longer. I was not ready yet.

Over those many days I’d covered miles of rugged trails, but the journey within was the more arduous undertaking by far. I’d come to the wilderness to escape the noise of humans and the city. I stayed because I needed to complete what I started. I didn’t know what I would find at my sojourn’s end, but for the time being my existence was just how I wanted it: pure, simple, and uncomplicated. I had a face but could not recall its features. I had a name but with no one to speak it, it had no purpose. I had a body but I was not so much a body as I was the force that animated it. That force was the same that sustained the forest around me, which I experienced as an extension of myself. All things seemed a part of one thing. This was my reality then.

The rain was falling hard again. It was time to find cover. I pushed back the poncho’s hood to better judge my footing on the rocks and wet leaves. There was little margin for error on the narrow ledge. Carefully I retraced my steps, then slipped beneath the thinning canopy. I traversed a fast-moving stream and headed downhill toward the valley.

Later that afternoon, when the rain was only a drizzle, I waded into the reeds on the mudflat to forage. The cattail was easy to identify because it looked like a sausage on a stick. I sliced off several of those bulrush franks. When dry they would make good tender for the campfire. However, what I was really after was on the distal end. Sliding a hand into the freezing muck, I took hold of the stalk near the base, pushed and pulled to loosen it, and heaved. Up came the plant with a fair amount of rhizome. What was left when I cut those away looked like the legs of a giant insect. After scrounging around a bit longer, clutching the muddy harvest in my shivering hands, I returned to the cave to prepare my meal.

The starchy stuff at the center of the rhizome was one of the richest sources of carbohydrates in the region. It could have been eaten raw once washed and peeled, but I took extra care and boiled it to ensure it was free of waterborne parasites. It tasted a little like bland potatoes. It wasn’t exciting, especially without salt or seasoning, but I had no other provisions and it would sustain me. After my meal of rhizomes and a cup of the licorice and chicory herb concoction I called “The Brew,” I unrolled the mummy bag. I laid it out close to the fire to be warm and cozy when I crawled inside.

As twilight drew near I couldn’t help but notice the change in my mood. I no longer dreaded the approaching night. In fact, I welcomed it. My nocturnal adventures had become even more insightful than my days. They gave me a look into the subconscious mind and an opportunity to explore the mysteries there.

That evening, amid the stillness and quietude, there seemed to be only one thing on my mind—or one “someone,” to be precise. That someone was Taz. In truth, she had been with me all along as the muse who inspired me to write. When I thought about the collection of songs I’d written during my stay in the mountains, it was as though I’d been composing a score for my sojourn. And that made sense. Writing always allowed me to wrap my mind three hundred sixty degrees around a concept and view it from every possible angle. That night I wanted to wrap my mind and arms around her. Taz was my connection. It was because of her that I was nearly ready to return.

I thought about the look on her face when we were last together. She was not pleased that I was going away. In my effort to make clear that my desire to leave was not because of her, those three words simply slipped off of my tongue. I was as surprised as she was. Neither of us had ever said those words to one another, and I certainly didn’t mean to say them first. I’d never said them to anyone before. Taz flashed an unreadable expression, and after an awkward silence we continued our conversation as though it hadn’t happened. She left my apartment shortly afterward, less angry than before but apparently more confused. Early the following morning I left town, sure that my slip of the tongue had complicated our relationship. There were bound to be consequences. I didn’t want those words to ruin our friendship, but I couldn’t take them back either. Still, as I stared at the shapes shifting within the flames of the fire, I knew that emotion was real. During my time away my affection for Taz had only grown deeper. I did love her, heart and soul. Soon I would return and face that music, whatever the consequences.

As for the music I was writing, there were songs in my head that only I could hear, that I alone could give expression to. Determined to do just that, I would set aside my creature comforts for a while longer and stay in the mountains until I finished composing what I heard.

I picked up the guitar and began to put a melody to the poem I’d penned earlier for the woman I’d come to love.

~Heartfelt~

For the laughter and the tears

For the tenderness I’ve come to cherish

For the love, this gratitude is heartfelt

Through a life of adventure and sojourned days

Whether radiant or stormy rain

For the love, this gratitude is heartfelt