He was lost again, this time in France, although the context was not important. Sometimes it was a strange cityscape, with streets, busses, trolley cars, shops and stores he had never seen before. Other times, it was a countryside or city familiar to him, often a place he had visited or lived in during his childhood. In this particular dream, it was France, a different nation, but the principle was the same: he was lost, trying to find his way home. He needed to reach the airport on time, probably in Paris.

He walked on, without seeing other people. Occasionally, a car passed by, nearly always in the opposite direction. He continued heading north, although he was not sure this was the correct way. As he arrived at the top of each hill, he looked beyond and saw only other hills, with gently sloping meadows spotted with trees on either side, a few clouds in the sky, an ocean to the left.

He didn't spend time rhapsodizing about the pastoral scenes before him. Time was pressing, and it was essential he arrive punctually. If the airplane left without him, he would never get home.

Where was home? He had no idea. Was it a dwelling? A town? A city? He didn't know. But it was important to get there. It was a safe place, he knew, someplace warm, a destination, a resting place, a sort of conclusion or answer to this seemingly endless quest. When he arrived home, his searchings and explorations would be completed, he felt, and everything would be all right. 

But the getting there was tedious. Not only tedious, but futile. In not one of his dreams had he ever actually arrived. He had only struggled to get there, anxiously wandering on roads like this one, in a countryside over hills and dales, or on urban streets, taking first one turn, then another, trying to recall landmarks he may have seen on the journey from home to wherever he was. But even if he did manage to spot a remembered tree or a huge stone by the road, or a street lamp or unusual storefront in the city, as soon as he made the turn to take the indicated new direction, he found himself again in strange territory, just as lost as he had been before.

He often found it frustrating, and ultimately so unrewarding that he lost patience and woke himself up. He could do that. For years now, he had been aware, within the context of his dreams, of the fact that he was dreaming. This dream had often recurred, and, to his dismay, never had he attained the goal, no matter how long he wandered or how diligently.

But look there, just ahead — the airport. And, yes, enough time remained for him to catch the plane, which idled on the runway. The other passengers had boarded. The door was open for him. The airplane waited.

All he had to do was find that play he had written.

A heap of goods lay stacked by the runway — piles of boxes, containing old shirts, pants, jackets, shoes, curled cords that connected guitars with amplifiers, tripods, cameras, lenses, magazines, abandoned typewriters, ribbons, heaps of cast-off stuff. But where was the manuscript?

He quickly rummaged through the first box in the first pile. No manuscript. He rummaged through other boxes in the other two piles, scooping out shirts and hats and old shoes, books, magazines, sheaves of papers. No play — and time was running short.

He finished searching the last box in the last pile, returned to the first box in the first pile, and went through all of the boxes a second time. Still no play. Where had he left it? Why couldn't he find it? And what play was it, anyway? He did not recall having written a play. And why was it so important that he find it? His frustration grew. He felt increasingly more agitated.

Slow down, he told himself. Be patient, and don't give up.

He returned to the first box again — and there was the manuscript! How could he have missed it? There it was, right there, in the very first box, in a Manila envelope. He opened the envelope and pulled out the contents, but the papers were covered with red wax. He couldn't tell whether the papers were simply coated with the wax, or if they had melted together. In any case, there were no separate sheets that he could see, just red wax apparently covering the papers, and although he could look through the wax and almost make out some of the writing, he was unable to read anything whatsoever.

This is ridiculous, he thought. Is there no end to frustration? To hell with it. This thing goes on forever. Wake up.

And he woke up.



He closed the book, leaned back in his chair, rubbed his eyes, sighed. Another great writer. Nearly his whole life he had been reading great writers. They all described Reality with a capital R, and they all described it brilliantly. Their insights knew no limitation. Their language gleamed, their observations were acute, their logic magnificent. Some of them even managed not only to describe the territory, but to give him an actual taste of it. They were few, but they did exist.

He sighed again, looked outside into the predawn morning. Still dark. Low clouds. Maybe no sun today.

Buddha gave him a taste, especially in the Dhammapada. And Lao Tzu in The Tao Te Ching, and Chuang Tzu in his writings. Osho bore him away on wings of language, love, compassion, insight and profound wisdom. A few others. . . Jesus. . .Gurdjieff. . . Once in a while, Krishnamurti. An occasional poet swept him away. A few scientists and wholistic thinkers touched the hem of the Divine. . .

For the most part, however, the majority mapped the territory and spoke brilliantly of it, but almost inevitably remained separate from it. They stimulated and nourished his mind, which he enjoyed, but rarely touched his heart or illumined his soul, and so he continued searching. He yearned to know the unrevealed source of things directly. The older he got, the more he ached for a nondual experience of the Real. Was there no hope? Worse—was hope itself merely another self-deluding carrot? A cynical mockery?

He used to cut assemblies in high school and hang out at the local cafe, playing pin-ball with his buddies. While they played the machines and he awaited his turn, he read Will Durant's The Story of Philosophy.

In that book he for the first time discovered people who were concerned with certain things he had wondered about, but had been unable to formulate. True, these writers were only philosophers—but the environment of his family, school and surrounding culture had otherwise been devoid of beauty, poetry, profundity or wonderment. While wandering alone in that middle-class cultural wasteland where nothing but meaningless objects existed and surfaces devoid of depth or interiority, he had stumbled across this book accidentally—and the philosophers contained within overjoyed him.

They were the first to set him forth upon the exploratory journey into those grand, exhilarating questions: Who Am I? What am I doing here? Where do we come from? Why do we suffer? Is there truth, meaning, beauty? What is knowledge, matter, spirit? Can we know anything, or is it all a dream? Plato, Kant, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Spinoza, Bergson—these and others in the book thrilled him with their thoughts, their passion, the vast scope of their perceptions, the depth of their insights.

From then on, he had searched libraries and bookstores, looking into literature, poetry, philosophy. He had followed leads to other authors, eventually discovering transcendental visionaries after years of wandering, and yet even then. . .even then. . .

Whether attending college, or playing rock 'n' roll guitar, whether numbing his questing heart with sex, drugs or alcohol, or escaping his doubts through work and efforts to acquire power, profit or prestige, he never gave up. At each level of his on-going journey, he inquired ever more deeply, with still greater intensity, greater hope, greater need. Every level led him deeper into himself and further into the questions. Every level opened new vistas of thought, feeling, insight, understanding. Every level offered more promise, more hope — but always something basic eluded him, something fundamental.

The writers, of course, inevitably occupied the inside track. They knew their territory, and mapped it with unmatched clarity. But no matter how many maps he studied, and no matter how well they detailed the terrain, he himself remained detached from it, a subject observing an object, a man whose questions remained. His yearning to know the territory for himself had become fierce. His heart burned. His yearning had become virtually palpable.

Be patient, he told himself. Don't despair. Remember the Old Boy's Tao, and don't push against the current. Float, don't rush, and don't give up. You may be lost, and you may feel frustrated, but keep on keepin' on.

Nevertheless, there were times, like this morning, when he could only close the book, rub his eyes, and sigh. Probably it would never happen. Probably he would never come to know the Real beyond the maps, the True beyond the words. He probably ought to forget the whole thing.



He pulled on his high-top boots for traction on the trail, and slipped his arms through the sleeves of his wool-lined jean jacket. He wrapped a scarf around his neck to protect against November's wind-chill, and doffed his old brown cowboy hat. He stuffed two extra roles of film into the breast pockets of his jacket, wrapped a canteen around his waist, hoisted on a backpack with crackers and an apple inside, picked up his camera and tripod and stepped out the door.

His dog Gabriel jumped up and down, swishing his tail, waggling his rear end and whining in eager anticipation. He could tell immediately they were going for a walk. A large dog, with gold-streaked brown fur, Gabriel loved the overcast sky, the snow on the ground, the freezing temperatures in these northern New Mexico mountains. He was a handsome cross between a husky, wolf and collie, with wide feet, pointed ears, a "mask" around his brown eyes. He danced with eager anticipation in the snow-covered yard, waiting for his friend to hurry up and finish locking the door.

The early morning sky remained overcast with light-grey snowclouds. The trail up the mountain would be icy. In turn, the ice would be covered by a layer of powdered snow, slippery, dangerous. If the going were not prohibitive, he might be able to hike a satisfying distance, get away from the books, escape his incessant thinking, clear his head, fill his lungs with clean cold mountain air.

Indeed, the snow was not too deep, and his thermal boots did not slip. Gabriel was thrilled they had finally embarked. Anything beyond the front yard was an adventure for him. He ran well-ahead, sniffing and spritzing the bushes, delighted with the crackling winter morning.




There were no people-tracks on the trail. Snow covered the forest floor and outlined barren tree branches. The air stood hushed and quiet, the stream faintly gurgling under ice. Grey clouds rolled over the mountain, promising more snow. Ice along the edges of the stream refracted dim light. He balanced the camera and tripod across his right shoulder, and kept on hiking. His breath formed mist-clouds, turning to ice in his beard.

About two miles up the trail, he stopped at a clearing and sat down on a large rock among a group of small pine trees he had named Ten Little Injuns several summers ago. Surrounded by snow and winter quietude, he set his gear aside in a clear place under one of the pines, then greeted his Little Injuns, stroking and praising each in turn, from the shortest, about boot-high, to the tallest, which had grown to nearly five feet over the years.

He rested, eyes closed, listening to the stream whispering quiet music under ice. He ate the apple and a cracker, sipped some water. After a while, refreshed, relaxed, he strapped on his canteen, pulled on his backpack, picked up his camera, and whispered, "Gabriel — come!" The dog perked up his ears, leaped to his feet, smiled broadly, and bounded up the trail.

The going became more difficult. Animal tracks criss-crossed deepening snow—rabbit, turkey, deer. An occasional wind gust jostled clumps of snow off tree branches. Clouds darkened into charcoal grey. A few snowflakes fluttered to earth like soft white feathers. He took his camera off the tripod, tucked it inside the pack, pulled his cowboy hat down tighter, kept on hiking.

About a mile further, they came upon a series of five waterfalls he had seen many times before in summers past — but this time everything was different. Everything had changed.

Freezing temperatures transformed stream water into solid sheets of ice, great blue-white curtains transfixed in time and space. Underneath each frozen waterfall, the stream continued its path beneath the ice, falling inside, from the rim at the top, down into ice-covered pools below.

Stream water trickled through ice-slits and over rocks, wafting up into vapor-clouds from the base. Blue-white ice dripped in folds over massive stones and formed great pilings reaching upward toward the rim. Sheets of ice fell in blankets and rippled layers, trailing down into ice-pools. Hollows and holes opened up like caverns, revealing interior depths of marbled ice and slick black rock. Each massive crystalline sculpture glowed with an eerie, grey, otherworldly light.

Never before had he seen anything like this. Surely, other people had taken pictures of frozen waterfalls, but he had never seen one. He didn't even know such natural wonders existed! He felt an indubitable sensation that he stood on holy ground in a lofty, ethereal world, as rarefied and sacred as it was pristine. He gazed in wonder at what he saw.

Blissfully ignoring the cold that chilled his face, iced his beard and nearly froze his fingers, he set up his camera and tripod at each waterfall and took several shots. He hoped the photographs would capture the living drama and beauty he beheld in front of him — if only he could create a picture of this reality that would transmit its magic to others and enable them to see what he saw, and feel the way he felt, in the presence of these primevally beautiful formations.

Overhead, snowclouds rolled slowly onward, altering the shades and shadows of ice and stone, water and ripple, rock and tree and bush. Great vapor clouds rose up in air, like spirits ascending to heaven. This high mountain place felt awesome and alive.


When he had finished taking pictures, he placed his camera and gear under a nearby tree beside the stream within the confines of a small enclave, out of the wind-chill but in full view of the highest and most magnificent waterfall. It looked like a crystalline city rising perhaps 30 feet above him. He named it Crystal City Ice-Falls.

Snowflakes fluttered down softly in the muted atmosphere as he gathered twigs and dry sticks from underneath pine trees and overhanging rocks. He made a circle of stones, lit a small fire, sat down on a bed of pine needles. Gabriel lay dozing just outside the enclave.

He warmed his hands over the fire and rubbed his cheeks. Blood returned to fingertips, face and ears. Smoke blended with vapor from the stream, spiraling upward into the tops of pines and leafless winter trees, disappearing in low clouds that rolled slowly over the mountaintops not too far above.

He closed his eyes and listened to waters dripping from on high, sliding over stone. Quiet music sang like tinkling glass within the muffled atmosphere. Snowflakes floated gently to earth in icy air.

He listened, relaxed and peaceful. The impatience that so often irritated him had subsided. Yes, he still felt lost, searching for a vague actuality that might forever elude him. But here, now, in this sacred place, something new emerged in his mind.

It was okay to feel lost. It was okay to search. And, if necessary, it was okay to search forever. Now, along with the urge to seek and explore, he felt a sense of purpose and conviction as well. His explorations were not just frustrating, vain or futile — he was also doing the right thing. It's not as if he were merely a fool. Or was he? No, he definitely felt the rightness of his endeavors.

The moment this thought occurred to him desire left him. He stopped searching. He relaxed. As he sat unmoving before the fire, eyes closed, six faces appeared before him, faces he had known and loved for many years — Buddha, with his round face and shaved head; Lao Tzu, with his almond eyes and bouncy pony-tail; Jesus, with his brown beard and shoulder-length hair; Gurdjieff, with his bald head and handle-bar moustache; Krishnamurti, with his leathery skin and aquiline nose; Osho, with his long white beard. They stood side by side, smiling and laughing, eyes twinkling, enjoying themselves.

"Come on," they beamed at him. "Don't give up. Keep going. You're on the right track!"

They chuckled among themselves, beckoning him forward. "It can be done, you know. Come on!"

The instant he said "Yes" to himself they nodded their heads, clearly pleased with him. Then, with sparkling eyes, they laughed again and disappeared!

In their place remained light and silence. Bright light, golden light, shimmering light everywhere. He took a single step forward and felt himself inside the light, surrounded and embraced by it.

"My God," he thought. "This is it."

The moment he uttered those words, he vanished. He no longer stood within the light, witnessing it — he became the light. He disappeared. No division, no separation. He was light, and the light was he, and he and the light were one.

His heart filled with a kind of joy he had never known before, a sense of unity, of wholeness. Here was home. This was the Reality they talked about. He felt love well up in his heart, a wordless love for everything and everybody — for the buddhas, the writers, himself, for his woman and other people he knew, for humanity at large, for Gabriel and earth and dirt and grass and trees, for this stream and these waterfalls, for insects and birds, chickens and turkeys, cows and ducks and rocks and wind, for sky and rain and snow.

He felt like laughing and crying at the same time. He did both. His face beamed with love and light and smiles. Tears dribbled down his cheeks. He felt immense gratitude toward everything and everybody, especially for all the men and women throughout history who had dedicated their lives to helping humanity see and feel exactly what he himself was seeing and feeling this very moment.

And it was all so simple — just as they said it was! The goal was not "out there." The goal was "in here." And "out there" and "in here" weren't different and separate. They were two aspects of the same reality! The goal was the source; the source was the goal. The search was the journey from source to source, and source was already in himself every step along the way — how simple!

None of his miseries on the path had been a useless waste. Only by going forward and upward, not backward and downward; only by ascending through anxiety, not numbing it out with drugs, alcohol, sex, or work; only by bearing all manner of frustrations, doubts and miseries — and courageously passing through and beyond these stages — could one arrive at this hallowed clearing within himself. Only by journeying from unconsciousness, to reason, and then leaping beyond reason to wholeness, could he know this sense of radiant unity. It did not feel like a regression back to the mindless protoplasmic fusion with nature. It felt like an ascension to a level of his own being above and beyond mind, a level of awareness that embraced nature and mind together as an expression of Spirit.

It may not be the home the mystics talked about, but it was certainly a sacred interior space, if only a first step, a beginning. It may not be the Reality, but it was certainly a profoundly higher level of awareness than he had known before, a radiantly beautiful dimension of transpersonal, transmental consciousness. One had to be it to know it. It was not a concept to be thought about. It was not linguistic. It was experiential, a direct apprehension.

All of the past was preparation, and all of that past was now included and embraced within this sense of connecting with nature as a numinous expression of Creative Spirit. Everything was not equal, but everything counted. Nothing was lost or wasted. Everything had its own value within this transcendent embrace. The lower did not obstruct the higher; the higher did not deny the lower. Everything within and without was sacred. There were no divisions, no exclusions, no opposites or boundaries. All things emerged in their own terms, and were complementary expressions and unified extensions of eternal Spirit. All levels within greater and still greater levels were holy. And no matter how long the journey took to get here, the realization happened in an instant!

He sat by the dwindling fire in its circle of stones and opened his eyes and looked at the Crystal City Ice-Falls. He still smiled. Tears still trickled down his cheeks. He still felt undivided, at one with that radiant inner light, and did not in any way disturb it. He simply felt the truth of this moment, its reality, its authenticity. He felt the actuality of it in wordless silence, even as he placed twigs and sticks upon the fire and sipped water from his canteen and munched the remaining crackers.

He stayed with himself this way, silent and at home within and without, filled with tremendous gratitude, feeling its intensity for several hours. By mid-afternoon, snow fell more quickly. Wind swirled powder and whipped it among the trees, across his face.

When he stood up and strapped on his gear, he knew his life had changed. He knew this was both an end and a beginning. In the depths of his heart, he heard a gentle voice whisper the words Buddha used to speak when concluding his discourses, "Charaiveti, charaiveti — Don't stop, go on, go on!"

He smiled, full of love for the snow, the wind, the ice and trees, and for this most singular, wonderful day. He tipped his hat to his laughing friends, bade farewell to the Crystal City Ice-Falls, whispered, "Gabriel—come!" and hiked back down the mountain, his eyes clear, his heart radiant with quiet joy.

Rio En Medio, NM
October 30, 1996