The muscles of my face relax as I contemplate
the next few feet of the climb.
History is a picture of an event between two other events,
a climb between two other climbs. The mountain is a mandala.
Ring upon ring, our path reaches for our relation to nature.
Place the setting in the wild. I'll prove to you that it needs
to be portrayed.
The doorframe is close to a cabin open to all beginnings.
The preparation, the days spent making lists are personal history.
The natural world is forever shaped by human hands
Once there was a perfect idea, but it had gates.
Our making of the world is only a wish to remove those gates.
A point doesn't really exist. Neither does a line for that matter.
They are only concepts. Ideas are not here to serve us.
In fact, we sometimes serve them. They have many lives
and often change their names. They are stoplights
changing on a dark, rainy night when no other traffic is around.