The ocean rippled and roared, a long way down. A long way from where we hitched our tents. Three-quarters of the way to go and we were guided by the light of the moon and a billion stars.
We were at the music stage. The part of the mountain where you could hear the song of the birds and the shake of the trees and the footsteps of the animal that hunted. But we were not afraid. The music was like those of a dreamtime story. The song that occurs in the midst of the jungle where no man steps foot was the song that played. We did not rush to get to the top. We could not miss each integral phase.
The bedoin boy, our guide slept, as our minds wandered into caves and treetops and over the cliffs. The cloudless night was bright and I closed my eyes to sleep. But still the song was so much more powerful than a soft lullaby. The moon was so much more than a comforting night light. The night awoke my dreams.
The night cultivated my dreams, planted half way up the mountain where they would decide to climb themselves. The air was so clean, the sort of air for dreaming. Not swept away into the sand or into the sea but in a buoyant phase of gravity. I felt this was the level we were meant to live at. And I hadn’t even climbed very far up the mountain.