Under the fog, to my knees.

When did the cadence of my voice start to mimic my mother’s? How did this vast place undefined, of not knowing, grow from the ground and become my world? I am but one. I speak to no one. I am only concerned with living.

Death is a specter that creeps out from the horizon as the falling sun darkens the land. It hangs over us as we plead for mercy, or at least for more time. Some of us wish to meet Death, until we see him pass through the room and then it is terror.

What a simple thing to bring such terror.

The body knows. Perhaps the body knows it is not immortal and hence the terror is inevitable. The body is one, separate from other, forgetting its motion with the world in rising, in resting, in becoming something else sacred.

There are things I will never experience in this lifetime; the writing is set. The infinite cannot be experienced in one round.

So, I am on my knees in the fog, knowing that all meaning is constructed and variable, yet one cannot live without meaning. Some find it holy to be detached. Some find it holy to be in the lush moment, unaware of anything else. Some have found the dance.

But I do not feel like dancing. I like being where I am on the floor, in the fog, because my senses are dulled to the cacophony of time. I feel the subtle air moved by the wings of an owl. I hear a soft hooting and feel a presence of somewhere I have never been, resting beyond, and this is where I want to be, in this unknown place with no compass or reason, feeling the nourishment of the presence of the elders.

I am not alone. I am also not initiated, hence this stopping part. There will be no big moment, but perhaps my voice will describe and shapes will form, and there will be somewhere to go.

Sorrow wells up from deep inside the body. The body knows. It knows death is near, that all will shift and I once more will have to trim my sails.

But not now. Now is for stillness as the felt wisdom, I pray, will find its way to words, to something I can define, build out, stand on, project into my sphere – I hope – for that is why I am here, I think, – for everything is changing, including the meaning of things and perhaps my own station as I move to an unknown place with no station, no focal point, no trajectory.

In is infuriating to us that we cannot know if – or what – a difference we impart. This bad trick on humanity has some purpose I do not know. Or perhaps it is just one of many effects caused by the creation of a reality based in physical structure: life, death and few inroads through the mystery that surrounds our every experience, like fog bringing us to our knees, humbled once again and closer to the earth, the only thing our bodies know really well.

With reluctance, I go towards the ‘where’ I remember sensing beyond. It is a courtyard, partially revealed, and there is an apple tree still holding bounty in the coolness. I pass through an archway; my fingers linger on the stone. The sun behind the fog makes a dim circle in the low sky. Why should I be drawn to such a place, which rests in silence, no message or shining answer? It’s just another place – but I am drawn.

There is a low throbbing in the air, almost unsensed. The ground carries a vibration; my feet taste the simple hum. Power of place. Is that why I am here? Not to find the next place but to build one out, to cast a hammer against the gong? Perhaps that is my role now, working unseen. I can make no assumptions.

Patience is not patience without listening, so I listen and the giant underground drums of the ancestors blend in with the humming below the earth. I am not alone. I will never be alone. These things have been done, again and again by many others and now I take my turn.

This empty, quiet place in the cool fog pulls me into a progressive tapestry of the ages, tattered at the ends, continually woven anew. I must begin.

Then, I hear songs from below and as they come into my awareness, I notice in the richness of the few apples, their tree has a song too – and it is the same. It speaks of the humans, whose songs are echoed in the same well, both ancient and new. To have forgotten this place is to be robbed of a felt sense of our collectivity, something to hold us steady when we venture forth, reminding us that on all roads, the old ones support us.

I think I know my path now, though what is missing is the fiery torch of my youth. I see the elders moving slowly, ponderous, steadfast, making ground – and much closer to the ground. This is my way now. I join them, feeling nourished, not seeing direction but invested in contribution.

What if the nature of this the place is that it will never be fully revealed? What if it being so close to Mystery causes it to be eternally unformed? That its shapelessness is what allows the ancestors to sift through the fog and the earth floor of the dimly lit orchard? I move towards the tree and encounter a stone well, rope, pulley, bucket, surface of the water unseen. From the archway, well unseen.

Here there are depths within depths, only to be found through encountering them. I pull on the rope, bring elixir to my lips, only for me – I know – in this place about others. It will sustain me so I may keep trying.

Tasara Ravenheart Stone