"Any path is only a path, and there is no affront, to oneself or others, in dropping it if that is what your heart tells you...Look at every path closely and deliberately, try it as many times as you think necessary. Then ask yourself, and yourself alone, one question...Does this path have a heart? If it does, the path is good; if it doesn't, it is of no use." (from "The Teachings of Don Juan"... by Carlos Castaneda)
In his waking life, in his human self, there was no pretense...he was who he was, humble, simple, and truly without magic...he was all heart. He was a lover of words. He sang. He danced. He also cried, and one would not know him as anyone different from any other. He lived a small and introspective life, a hermit of sort who kept the company mostly of nature, and wildlife, and a few animals that afforded him the comfort of his being. He was neither tall nor short, and lived a life of quiet solitude, and his eyes might have, upon close scrutiny, given him the appearance of knowing more than he spoke.
Halfway up the mountain, he stopped, his breath coming quicker and quicker as the altitude began robbing the air from his lungs. He sat down in the narrow channel of a large boulder that sat prominently alongside the trail that would eventually take him home, home where he could finally lay down and rest, sleep being his one need after such a journey. Off and down into the distance, amid the mist that shrouded the seaside valley, he could faintly see the place where they had parted.
He let his mind wander, closing his eyes for just a brief moment, and smiled at the image her grace and beauty had imprinted upon his heart, and cursed under his breath at the gods that had separated them and placed them upon their separate journeys. He pictured her sitting there, next to the waterfall, head bowed to the ground so as to conceal her tears, and with a sigh of resignation, he quickly shook his head to expel the image and save whatever heart he had left for the climb ahead of him, the cave but a small and dark blot upon the grand face of this mountain, just above the blanket of cloud that encircled it's majesty.
He climbed the stony path, indented and worn smooth from generations of passings, up and into the cave. His pupils widened slowly upon entering, and eventually his sight becoming accustomed to the surrounding darkness, damp and hidden crevices became clearer, and he moved to the spot in the center where his satchel had lain quiet and unopened for the length of his missing days and nights.
Spreading out the patterned weave of his blanket, he spread it across the width of the small cave, near the firepit, and pulling the leather pouch close to him he retrieved the precious small black stones from within. They felt warm in his hands, and striking one against the other he produced a few well placed sparks that landed silently and skillfully upon the dried grass and tendered twigs he had placed within a small stone circle the day he had departed so long ago. Cupping his hands around his lips, he focused a bellow of air towards the now glowing embers of warmth and light, giving his soul a feeling of deep, deep comfort after his long, sad, and arduous journey.
He was home, the fire was settled, and he lay back and fell tiredly into the shadows that flickered and beckoned his dreams across the moist stone walls of his sanctuary, and focusing upon a shadow that resembled the winged flight of the eagle, he let his thoughts travel, like an opiate, into the heart of his soul...remembering her. His pupils had just begun to accustom themselves to the amber light until they could no longer hold themselves open, and in exhaustion, his body and mind drifted, finally, into a long and welcomed sleep, and off into the dream path.
And so he slept, deep, untroubled, flying among the shadows of his dreams.
He did not know just how long he had been asleep, but once his eyes had fully opened and he had felt the slow pull of his breath through his tired body, he gathered himself up upon one elbow and turned to see an autumn sun just breaking the horizon...golden and fighting the moon for a place in the morning sky. The air was chilled and he could see the small rivulets of gray breath streaming from his lips, rising and dissipating into the damp, dark interior of the cave. The fire had become nothing more than an ashen pile of last nights comfort, though the stones that encircled it still held the warmth that had held captive it's flame.
He rolled over and stirred the coals, tossed on a handful of dried grass and twigs, hoping to rekindle it's life without having to remove himself from the comfort of the woolen blanket that hugged his aching bones. The flames having easily recovered themselves, he lay back down, pulled his satchel back to pillow his head, and let his thoughts wander long into the lazy dawn.
sing,
in a voice I recall,
lest I forget who I am...
send the wind through the reed of flute
and sing me a song,
put your hands to the fire
and feel me bend to your sound.
love...when defined,
is the taste of water
to a man lost in the desert,
and the sound of you as I drink...
that is the song.
