The night sky. As comforting as it is confronting. Tonight it would be her zendo, her meditation hall, as she sought to blend the inner and the outer, the finite and the abyss, the now and the forever.
She had hiked the high glacial valley walls during the bright daylight hours, and with the day coming to a close she found herself on a rocky, exposed ridgeline—exactly where she wanted to be. The words of her guru refracted around her skull; it was he who had told her the kind of space—not only physically, but spiritually—to seek out, and this spot seemed perfect. From her bag she pulled her zafu, the round meditation cushion she carried with her almost everywhere; worn, tattered and well-travelled. And several moments later, a rolled-up royal blue rug—the threads of luscious lapis lazuli reminiscent of the descending dusk—emerged from the bag as well, which she unfurled with a snap. Right leg folded under left as she made her way into lotus pose.
Pulling the cowl of her robes back, she felt the ever-so-fair night breeze on her shaven scalp. She tilted her head upwards, mesmerised by the Milky Way, now furled like her rug, in all of it’s ancient glory. The astral arch—omnipresent and omniscient—held the memories of every sunrise, every breath, every death, that has ever taken place. A river of stars, it meandered towards its mouth, before dissolving into the sea; the ocean of her awareness. Of the awareness. All awarenesses. The memory of origin, of what was; though, also, what has always been. The night sky, now black as pitch, dark as the abyss of self-delusion. A finite Universe containing infinite multitudes, bound by a timeless time, a deathless death. Enclosed entropy, a swirling churning maelstrom of birth, death, and rebirth, where everything stays the same.
