Breathe as you set your foot.
Feel under the pad of each toe those little pieces of grit digging in,
The dust of the day settled around you.
As the outer edge of your foot sets,
Roll that flesh down to your heel,
The warm stone offering firm resistance as you press your instep against it,
Completing the stance.
In that posture,
Foot held to the side 45 degrees from the wall,
Feel your weight on your left,
Settled,
Sinking,
Hands brought up,
Reaching for the corner.
Just breathe in,
Out.
As your arms fold and the form requires another step,
Shift slowly to your outstretched leg.
When the balance is ready,
Lift that foot which supported you moments before.
Arms relaxed,
Bowing,
Pivot and let your leg move into the new posture.
Another step closer,
Feet pressing into the windblown sand,
Another star set in an ancient dance,
Or it will be.
Only practicing now in this archaic space,
Notice the differences you will need to account for.
When you choose to go through the final version,
There will be deep bridges in the floor,
Channels for water,
For blood,
Jagged pillars,
And that cruel table all will disrupt your path.
In that other place,
The future you will contend with more than grit and dust.
And of course,
All around,
The hungry ghosts will be watching.
That is the reason for the practice,
At least one of the reasons.
As you shift on these ancient stones,
Feel the wind gently dance with you,
Those invisible tendrils drifting all around.
Chaotic,
But not directionless.
Notice how they all pull up,
Racing from some distant pit far below out of your vision,
Depositing new sand in a thin layer across the rock,
Flowing into the final posture,
Hands settled at your waist,
Fingertips dragging to the last motion.
Feel your weight settle,
Even,
Balanced.
Let that stability fill you,
And breathe.
Once your mind calms,
Look around the ancient stone amphitheater you have chosen as your practice space.
See the sand-worn stone wall to the east,
Curving around until it meets the sheer drop,
Finding only darkness.
Though the winds never howl,
They are always moving here,
Always spiraling up the cliff face.
And with them,
They bring not just cold sand,
But a bitter mist,
A taste of an elsewhere you have not visited in a long time.
Soon,
You will have to.
But not yet.
There are a few more stops along the way.
As your hands relax,
Know that you have learned the steps,
An ancient constellation to protect you,
To open the doors,
And most importantly,
To walk on the wind.
There will be more dances,
But there is no more need to practice.
With one bounding,
Confident step,
Then another.
Bring yourself to that edge,
And look over that bottomless pit.
In the seemingly endless fall,
Never touched by the kiss of a sun,
Notice sparks of light.
Those brief flickers of blue give you very little to work with,
But you now know where you are going.
Close your eyes for just a moment,
And inhale,
Taking in the taste of that mist,
Contrasting with the warm scent of the sand.
As you exhale,
Open your eyes,
And take that next step.
Wind whipping past,
Feel it tug at your hair,
The loose linen you wear,
Almost buffeting you in its effort to climb higher.
Almost swimming,
Feel how the descent shifts and twists,
Sending you towards a particular light,
One that shimmers faintly.
Let the fall guide you,
Spilling you over towards that end.
As the door races into view,
Reach for that handle,
And lightly step onto the small,
Elaborately woven rug in front of it.
Grasping the curved metal,
Take just a moment to feel the soft fibers under your feet,
And appreciate the ghostly blue flame flickering in its lantern,
Before stepping through.
This has been Sacred Steps of the Fatal Neutrinos and a Blue Path Meditation.
These are stories of histories that weren't,
Futures that mustn't,
And places that cannot be.
Thank you for listening.
I hope your day is better,
Or at least more surreal for it.
This is Easton,
And remember,
I'm as much a work of fiction as anything you hear.
