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Wednesday, August 1, 2012

guided meditation: wideness

You are walking within a forest a few hours after noon. It is lit slantways with golden light, which, in filtering down, becomes emerald and shimmers. A bird cries somewhere, but it is so far off you wonder that you did not imagine it.

You are at peace.

You notice that you are not wearing shoes, that the moss beneath your bare feet and the dirt between your toes is good. You are dressed in white; your eyes are sunlit. The boundary between yourself and the forest is indefinite; you do not know exactly where you begin and the air about you ends. You take a deep breath, and the wind from the north promises snow, but that, too, is far, far off.

You are sure of nothing but the presence of yourself, magnanimous and ethereal in your own power.

You come to a fork in the road. The right surely leads you to the mountains and the left, surely, will take you down to the sea. You stand at the fork, stretching upward to the sky and downward to the earth, touching the trees about you with your fingertips. They whisper to you. The sound of the wind through their leaves is that of the waves through the sea, and so you turn left.

The path gradually slopes downward; the sentinels of trees transfiguring, mile by mile, into the the sturdiness of stones, marking the roadway with their immobility. And as jade becomes sapphire, you step out upon the precipice, the spray blanketing your face.

The sun sinks below the waves. It carries the last of your inhibitions, and you sink into your wideness.

You walk a twisting stone path as the darkness settles about you. The stars wink to life overhead; moonlight enraptures the sea. You walk on, your feet distant, your eyes fixed upon the sky. You expand to contain every star.

And as you arrive, you are huge and looming. It is a whitestone temple, silvered amongst the ink of the midnight. It is all domes and towers, and it is a gentle light, the warmth of dawnglow, that radiates forth from the doors and the arches. There is a soft chanting.

The man that comes to meet you is dressed, also, in white. He takes you, in your largeness, and he brings you inside. And as you lay your head to sleep you gaze out at the wilderness through which you have come, which you have become.

And you smile.

You smile to be so small.


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