There are many paths to the fire around which we sit, telling everything we've seen, everything we've learned. Life starts at the top of the mountain and plummets downward, rough and tumble. If you can resist the urge to turn and climb up again you may not die scrambling in futility on the craggy cliffs. If you can turn and find a path through the wilderness you will arrive, at length, at the fire. Here all are welcome, bewildered and suspicious to have apparently arrived. Some wander away, looking for the mountain again, straining to see it in the dusky distance.
When you die we throw you into the fire to keep it going, a sacrifice to the wilderness of life. Some say the smoke of you goes back to the top of the mountain. I don't know. Maybe it does, but mostly everyone burns bright, light and warmth for the circle.
When I'm gone throw me in. If I find my way back to the mountain I'll hurry back. I'll try with all my strength to remember all that happened, to remember being here, and to come back and tell you the truth at last.
In the beginning there is a mountain hard, cold at the top. At the bottom there is a wilderness wild laced and woven with more paths than you can count. At the end of every path is the fire. Come. Sit. Tell us where you've been.
Hello, friends.
Love.
