Number Thirty Seven

This is the land of zero visibility.  We see only the immediate -- to the next problem, the next solution.  And the moments of struggle and solving spill one into another.  Gathering like a lowland mist that hangs close to the ground and makes it impossible to see in any direction.

The fog of days is made from problems and solutions.  From fixing what is broken in front of us.  And running to the next broken thing, the next remedy.  The fog of days doesn't lift.  It lays in the forks and crossroads, covering all but the next step.

There is no way to see except to climb.  Above the answers and the plans.  Up where there is no next thing.  Where there is only the breath.  Where the hills are rutted with the random paths of animals.  Where the ridges and gullies could lead anywhere.