you can't be full and be filled

yesterday i trekked into the Ojai hills. 

(the autumn is clearly upon us: the wind tells me, the light tells me.) 

i had no vision of my destination and there was a moment when i hesitated, not knowing how far i would be going, or if i had enough water.  but the momentum drove me on.  up and up and up, feeling blood push through my veins and bring a flush to my cheeks.  the pure air drove me on.  each step connected me to the dry, dusty earth, even as i rose higher towards the California sky.  the footfalls behind me drove me on.

the silence was delicious.  low shrubs shed their seeds and manzanita bark peeled up to form ruby curls.  (the plant kingdom is so alien, so fascinating.)  when the clouds passed over the sun, the air chilled; when the trail curved back into the light, the air lightly baked my skin.  i meditated.  breathing in, i am breathing in.  breathing out, i am breathing out.  panic, anxiety, anger, rage, sorrow, weariness, one by one they bubbled up into my consciousness and then burst at the crown of my head.  i passed many layers while i walked.

the point is that i cannot receive this in civilization.  if i do, it is a teasing taste, and temporary.  only between the vast expanse of sky and the craggy mass of shale and sandstone--or between the deep and the shallows of the sea--do i ever totally decompress.

today, my sore muscles remind me.  they remind me of my strength, and also of my vulnerability.  i don't know who or what i am, and not knowing makes me confident in what i must do.  thank you, gaia, for selflessly giving me pause.  for absorbing the ugly heaviness of human life, the residue of the ego.  for keeping me from complacency and reminding me of where i come from.

sinking my roots and turning my face up to the sun, i smile.  i cry.  i am.