I am traveling by foot through thick mountain mists. I must keep my eyes on the ground to avoid missteps. Occasionally a shadow of a tall evergreen will loom out of the fog as if to snatch me in its branching arms and pull me close, close enough so that I can feel its life force flowing through its roots and up along its trunk. It slowly ascends in a winding spiral that lifts me out of my thoughts and fills my skull with some luminous nectar.
When I let myself be drawn into its mystic embrace I am sifted like smoke, wafting into another dimension of feeling — not anything with a name, but sensuous and rich, like the music of some exotic ambient composition compelling attention towards an ever-receding horizon, a horizon engulfed by billows and layers of multicolored mists.
There is a fog horn in the distance echoing in a repetitive droning harmony that mesmerizes, captivates . . . Long ago, yes, I remember long ago it reverberated softly through my dreams, and I did not recognize it then for what it was, the sound of my own life synchronizing with time and all of its hypnotic charms.
In this way, I became aware of myself as a being, a matrix of perception emerging from a fog, born from a misty womb without a name, except that it was white, radiant, and though leaving its warm comfort behind seemed risky, there really was no choice. The choice had already been made by the being I was before I became the being I am, the one now carefully making its way through these mists, drifting along this mountain trail that seems to never end.