“I vant to be alone” —Greta Garbo
Sometimes, while skiing, I’ll stop wherever I am to be aware of where I am, whether any other skiers are nearby or not. I still myself, being alone with that location, not merely in it. I see the sun on the mountainside across the valley, the gentle swaying of snow-dusted pine boughs, hear my breath, perhaps seeing it in the cold air as I exhale. And I am there with the snow, white everywhere, the chill entering my nose, my lungs, my eyelashes crackling as I blink.
lowering sun . . .
the meaning of life
eludes me again