Old growth trees line a worn path cut from loggers decades before.
The floor is covered with fallen needles and moss.
A single white birch exists within the pine trees and glows no matter the time of day.
Red squirrels run up tree trunks and jump to the next branch.
If this is a dream, if this is a reality that is both here and not here, I have found the perfect place. I have perfected the fields I wish to walk within the rest of this life.
But these moments are fleeting and pass like seeds on the easterly wind, carried for distances beyond what we can see, into the realms of the mind and the buried experiences.
How do we unearth and keep alive the existence where we are most happy, where suffering is kept to a minimum?
The light reaches over the tree tops and the forest is flooded with white pulsating energy as I close my eyes and walk into the open arms.
