I am back.
I have to start work in a little while but before I get down to that, I wanted to write about a perfect night in Kasol.
It was late. Some friends had gone off to sleep. I was having a drink with a friend. We weren't really talking much. Maybe a little about life gone by (which, again, in the hills, may simply have been the memory of the last meal.) We could see the haze of the moon, feel the chilly wetness of 'almost-rain', and sat in the hush of the hills. We breathed. And sipped dark rum that felt delectable. We could hear the roar and rush of the Parvati river, faint voices of other guests at the homestay and some distant music from a car really far away.
I think we talked a little bit about mistakes. The silhouette of a large mountain makes it easier to talk about mistakes because, really, what's a little foible in front of that. Just as we were settling in the comfortable satiety of self-pity, we noticed something. The green apples that hung from all the trees in the orchard were glowing. The moonshine kissed them and softened them and there they were, hung like little orbs of light.
Between the silhouette of the mountain and the talks of mistakes, there were golden glows of apples that lay suspended like broken beads of a phantasmagorical rosary.
I don't know about my friend. But I prayed on reflex.
My time in the Himalayas have taught me something. That maybe it is not just the myth of Shiva or the lore of Parvati or even the mysticism of the kinds of energy circles you find there. Maybe it just the simple ways in which the spectacular finds you. Maybe we formed the very first religion because we were humans and as humans, we instinctively do only this: we bow to beauty.
I have to start work in a little while but before I get down to that, I wanted to write about a perfect night in Kasol.
It was late. Some friends had gone off to sleep. I was having a drink with a friend. We weren't really talking much. Maybe a little about life gone by (which, again, in the hills, may simply have been the memory of the last meal.) We could see the haze of the moon, feel the chilly wetness of 'almost-rain', and sat in the hush of the hills. We breathed. And sipped dark rum that felt delectable. We could hear the roar and rush of the Parvati river, faint voices of other guests at the homestay and some distant music from a car really far away.
I think we talked a little bit about mistakes. The silhouette of a large mountain makes it easier to talk about mistakes because, really, what's a little foible in front of that. Just as we were settling in the comfortable satiety of self-pity, we noticed something. The green apples that hung from all the trees in the orchard were glowing. The moonshine kissed them and softened them and there they were, hung like little orbs of light.
Between the silhouette of the mountain and the talks of mistakes, there were golden glows of apples that lay suspended like broken beads of a phantasmagorical rosary.
I don't know about my friend. But I prayed on reflex.
My time in the Himalayas have taught me something. That maybe it is not just the myth of Shiva or the lore of Parvati or even the mysticism of the kinds of energy circles you find there. Maybe it just the simple ways in which the spectacular finds you. Maybe we formed the very first religion because we were humans and as humans, we instinctively do only this: we bow to beauty.
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