Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
Swaddled in protective layers, the body moves steadily and surely over snow and ice and frozen blades of grass. Little is regarded by the subtle senses of the soles, percepting through rubber and wool in this season. A trunk, tree-like yet in motion across the plain, it culminates above in a gaze, filtered and protected by a polarized lens. The sight sweeps back and forth at times, turning the whole of the body in the process, neck constrained to one degree in the warm padding. The gaze takes in the wondrous world around: hazes of dormant plants hiding in veils of wind-blown crystals. The sun is hiding too, a soft dim glow in the midst of the clouds. The body continues across the landscape, crunching firm even ground with every step. Amid squall and weather swirl, a feeling of command suffuses consciousness, borne from the steady travel of the body through space.
In the thicket there is a slight calm. Not quite enough crossing branches to elicit the true calm of the woods on a day like this, but still a respite from the blowing charge of the fields. A path, drifted in places and winding in a treaded course softened by time and sun. It leads eventually to a window, an opening on the world downwind. Out on the plain you see them, blowing across the open flats, swirling in their charge. The dancing stampede. Like unyielding bison the snow devils, pirouetting in crashing flocks; sweeping the storm winds along. They play and scamper, rein and snarl, all in furious pace. Their feet leave no trace upon the tundra floor but a wisp of icy shadow; a light swirl of crystals that scatter their essence back into the whole.
The clouds shift and dance above the scene, an intricate stage lighting for the show. Without warning or too much suddenness, there is an opening in the clouds and she rises, coalescing. A stillness comes to the mind and the gaze is fixed on ethereal angelic presence in garb of glowing silver. The shepherd of this wild flock is glorious over her range. An angel held in the open space the sun has made. The ephemeral deity is nothing but a shaft of light-filled flurries tinged golden by the western rays. Yet this here is the truth of the divine. Where else could it be sought if not here in the raw forces, where else could she be real if not in the reality? For a moment the sight beholds something truly exalted, though the mind cannot fully grasp its meaning. Consciousness holds itself in a suspension of reason, in pure communion with the magic of base perception. Inhaling, the body breathes the divinity and accepts itself as a part of the storm. Consciousness perceives itself in that moment as but one small moving part in the grand flow of reality. The angel is turning along her path. She gestures out and embraces her swirling charges, and absorbing, falls back into the oneness of the storm again.
The eyes closed, the body relaxed into the embrace of the wind. It speaks in unceasing whispers that roar through the halls of inner space. The calls of the wind hint at all the places it has been. It beckons to the promise of distant mysteries waiting to be found and realms beyond the salient world. Relaxing into these possibilities, the mind meditates. The body is protected, and the tension of the building squall all around awakens a deep calm within. Peace is found in the midst of the storm. It is a peace that tests and secures the wisdom within. The security is cold and sure as deep clear ice. Breathe, and receive the crisp life of the winter air. Held and released, it is the breath of reality itself. Listen carefully as it flows with you.
Eyes open again, the sun has dimmed. A fresh darkening of cloud is bringing thicker flakes again. The wind rises here and there, insistent in its raucous cries. Crows always seem to have a little too much intelligence for comfort. The body moves, consciousness acknowledging the gift it has been given by being in this spot at this moment in time. Steadily, the self seeks home again for recuperation. Glorious as it always is, the divine comes at a cost. No true communion is not sought out in a journey away from rest. Moving through the growing snow, the peace holds still in the heart, and is secured with each crunching step.
