These are but moments of nostalgia, reminscing certain places, certain times.
I stood on the Roof of the world. I listened to the glacier creak at 16,237 feet. I heard the sound of avalanches falling. I stood still and waited for Him, knowing He was God. I watched, as the Bible says, the mountain crumbling. The earth slipped away, crashing into Tilicho Lake. I watched the turquoise tarn roll with its waves, then settle. Meditating on life, for a moment I felt I had seen all that's real.
I stood in the shadows beneath the eyes of Jesus, with his hand raised. It was the Hour of Judgement. Mother Mary and John the Baptist, and the Archangel Michael were watching. Men and women held the hands of children. The Blue Mosque was in an open window, blue tiles and crystal chandeliers. It was a world full of Abraham's stars: every man, woman, and child.
The Poet of Eternal Return, in the Pink City, in Jaipur. A window in a broken wall -- the evocation of the space between, between this life and the next; the black slit, the unknown, ever-looming; the transmigratory bird -- the cosmic soul -- perched on the precipice waiting, with her snares and obstacles to overcome; and all around her the barbs of earthly temptations to traverse.
To the empty chair beyond the porthole, beyond. Who is your sitter, your thinker, your contemplative hermit and wanderer? What dreams and visions have you given comfort to in this hidden world of yours? Have you felt the sadness? Have you felt the earthly joy?
Arriving to Manang after bursting blisters when a thunderclap scared me into a heavy trot. This woman and the field of pink buckwheat set me at ease. Resting at the foot of Gangapurna, beneath its soaring glacier, acclimating, eating tsampa, and chaang -- rice wine said to ward off the bitter alpine cold. Tibetan prayer flags kept me company, and the sound of the river and silence. Children climbed mani walls and spun prayer wheels in the dusty streets.
All these mountains, all these old photos and talk of Sherpas. Transported back to the Himalayas, to Nepal and Upper Pisang. Walking alone in autumn without a guide, without friends, without insurance; only to experience, if only for a moment, the feeling of isolation; -- that dark hole in the heart, the light held in abeyance by the unknown power.