I will forever look back with fondness on that dark morning.
There are places where not even the faintest of paths can be found, and others worn so deeply by millennia of travel . . where no one dares deviate even slightly. We pride ourselves on being unique at something or other, hoping to stand out above or at least apart from everyone else. But there are paths within paths, and wider paths still. And often fear is what keeps us on the paths we take.
It is not only a small child who can be fooled into thinking that quantity is better. Offer her a choice between five silver coins or one gold, and she will most likely opt for the five, though eye you with suspicion. We learn, we don’t always know best, even when inexorably sincere.
The wind had died as steadily as the day had, and it seemed as if the sun was pulling down the last of hope with it into the serrated horizon. Even the beauty of the lavender striations was lost on me. Me. It always seemed to be about me, in the end. And it was never enough. Nothing was ever enough.
The utter darkness seemed to be presenting a decision that could no longer be ignored. Choose, or continue to lose. The night draped around me like a cloak, woven of the threads of all I had already lost. I fought the weight of it pressing down upon me, though there was nothing to push against. Lighter than silken webs, heavier than death.
There is really no way to explain it. Towards the arc of morning, the jagged hills seemed to insist on the birthing of the moon. The growing brilliance, though only the reflected glory of the sun, so ripe with resilient buoyancy. Luminous and ancient and ageless and immutable. Undeniable. It suddenly seemed so easy. Hand it over. Give up. Trust in the Song.
And so it sings within, and even the oldest of paths are no longer tedious.
And joy is easier than sorrow.
There are places where not even the faintest of paths can be found, and others worn so deeply by millennia of travel . . where no one dares deviate even slightly. We pride ourselves on being unique at something or other, hoping to stand out above or at least apart from everyone else. But there are paths within paths, and wider paths still. And often fear is what keeps us on the paths we take.
It is not only a small child who can be fooled into thinking that quantity is better. Offer her a choice between five silver coins or one gold, and she will most likely opt for the five, though eye you with suspicion. We learn, we don’t always know best, even when inexorably sincere.
The wind had died as steadily as the day had, and it seemed as if the sun was pulling down the last of hope with it into the serrated horizon. Even the beauty of the lavender striations was lost on me. Me. It always seemed to be about me, in the end. And it was never enough. Nothing was ever enough.
The utter darkness seemed to be presenting a decision that could no longer be ignored. Choose, or continue to lose. The night draped around me like a cloak, woven of the threads of all I had already lost. I fought the weight of it pressing down upon me, though there was nothing to push against. Lighter than silken webs, heavier than death.
There is really no way to explain it. Towards the arc of morning, the jagged hills seemed to insist on the birthing of the moon. The growing brilliance, though only the reflected glory of the sun, so ripe with resilient buoyancy. Luminous and ancient and ageless and immutable. Undeniable. It suddenly seemed so easy. Hand it over. Give up. Trust in the Song.
And so it sings within, and even the oldest of paths are no longer tedious.
And joy is easier than sorrow.
