Mountain, Seen

One foot in front of the other, that is all. Repeat as needed to arrive.

Walking through the seasons: the naive hope of spring, purgatory of summer, bittersweet cool of fall, the numbness of winter. This divine comedy of hope and desperation repeating itself on the great wheel of the year is enough to drive one mad because of its sameness.

But the sameness is what allows survival because it is broadly predictable. Forecasts can be made, prognostications can be ginned up, because of possibilities. They don't always pan out, any one can confirm it, but so much more a Known than the Terrain that must be crossed.

Terrain. A pithy word to encompass all that stands between the Sojourner and Realization. Especially when that Realization is the manifestation of all that is desired. This desire, this object, a Kilimanjaro standing proud of the emotional savanna unfolding before eyes grown weary of the distance involved. Distance being the material manifestation of Time, an unavoidable fact of existence. So much of it...it exists in infinite quantities but only extrinsic to the human containers that enclose all these Thoughts and Feelings seeking to be realized in another outside of themselves.

So the Sojourner keeps walking. It has no choice. Buffeted by sun and rain, beset by the demons and devils of doubt and fear, what other course can be taken, other than to lay down and melt into the Terrain? To forsake everything, succumbing to the minority exhortations of an exhausted, lonely soul?

One foot in front of the other. The path remains before the Sojourner, sometimes strong and true, other times seeming invisible except for a few bent stalks of grass. To stop now, even with the validation of others knowing just how draining the Journeys really are...that is betrayal. Not to the external world, no, but to the Sojourner. 

On the horizon, the flanks of the mountain shimmer in the heat, disappear in the mist, dissolve in the rain...but always remain. Wiping the salty mud from eyes grown sore, the Sojourner keeps walking. The air up there  on the mountain is redolent of green, water runs clear and sweet and a soul can find purchase in the rich, fragrant soil of Love. The Sojourner raises a sunburned head to breathe deep of possibilities. Hints on the wind of what awaits there high in the treeline...

Sustenance. Realization. Love. For these, one foot in front of the other, to get you there.