Once upon a year ago, I journeyed by my lonesome into the mountains on a gray winter day. The morning, overcast and threatening snow, was a dismal one, yet something drew me out of Albany at a time when it was still all right to do so. I couldn’t know the impending storm that would ensnare the entire year to come. Driving east, just over the border into Massachusetts, I veered off the turnpike and wove my way into the beginnings of the Berkshires. Several summers ago we took a similar route up to the Mount, summer home of Edith Wharton. This was a different path, into a different realm. I made it on my own, to reconnect to my soul at a time when I was most afraid.
The route I had taken took me through Stockbridge, where I would later pause for a cup of tea at the Red Lion Inn, but something pulled me away from that cozy spot, further toward the mountains. I drove off the main route and took a few side roads. Seeking solitude and silence, I wanted to escape the more-frequented space, and eventually I wound my way into relative seclusion. Winter whispered to me there, as snowflakes fell delicately through the air, silently and without wind to move them the least bit sideways. It was entrancing, creating an effect that was as beautiful as it is has proven elusive ~ wind so often acting as a companion to snow.
The world stood silent, the sky stood gray, and the air stood still. There, I saw what I thought was a wolf or a coyote, and I couldn’t tell for quite some time. It paused in its own path, turned to look at me, and shared a moment of wild communion. Someone once remarked my eyes reminded them of a wolf’s, but that suddenly felt far away. In that instant, I rekindled a certain fire within, and knew I would be all right, no matter what happened.
In that wilderness, at the base of the land where the mountains began to climb, I summoned the spirit that had been eluding me. Conjured from a winter world where warlocks and wizards floated in castles filled with fire, a little spark set off a proverbial tendril of spiritual smoke – a shroud to rival any woolen cloak – which would protect my heart like a powerful talisman. It felt like I was being made whole again, forged from some crystalline mountain magic of ice and snow, laced with the wonder of winter, a season which I never embraced as much as I should have. It took me in then, it made me partner and friend, sensing what I needed and imbuing the soul with the wherewithal to survive all the winters to come. When the animal retreated, it was time for me to go as well.
Later that day I would find a piece of rose quartz shaped like an egg – a sign of rebirth – that fit the palm of my hand, nestled and cradled like it was molded specifically for me to hold it. It would form the heart of my meditation – a new way of life that was setting me off on a journey that was more than mere survival.
