The path is steep, narrow and stone filled, lined with underbrush, whose bony hands reach out to catch my pant legs, like the begging hands of Calcutta poor, beseeching alms from affluent strangers. The forest surrounds me like the towering quarters in some ancient city's back streets, twisting here and there, revealing more coils in the road at every bend. My backpack is heavy, containing all that I thought I might need to make my journey, and more. My guide, not always visible because of all the twists and turns in my up-bound journey, leads on, to, who knows where. Sometimes our only contact is the distant sound of a voice calling out "Hurry along, don't delay, Time enough to rest at journey's end." Other times our connection is nothing more than the sound of stone pouncing from path to scrub or the slap of leathery feet on this hard place and that soft spot. Onward, upward through the convolute I go growing weary of the climb and more fearful of what may lay ahead. Then it comes, a broad abyss where earth meets air, then earth again. Too wide to step across, I halt, and stare in unbelief at the open arms of my guide, there on the other side, bidding me to take my vault across the deep expanse. I cry out, "Is there another place, one less wide?" "The path is where we find it. We must go on from here," "My pack is too heavy. It will drag me down!" "Leave it, then. I carry all you need." "But, all I have is in this pack." "Jump here or return, I must go on." Leaving all that I have behind, I take my leap of faith, am carried by angels a little while, and land, unharmed, in the guide's strong arms.
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