Basecamp for Mystics

finding freedom to climb higher with others

I once knew a man who, a couple of years ago and after five and a half decades, staggered and stumbled out of a thick forest full of brambles and thickets. He was bearded, haggard, gaunt, wore worn and torn clothes, was thirsty, and wore only one sandal because he’d lost the other in a swamp somewhere long ago. He was hungry, and tired, yet his EYES were alive and even though his body was tired his eyes were FIRE.

Having broken free of the thick forest full of brambles and thickets, he stumbled into a pleasant, mown pasture with sunlight and buttercups in the grass. The pasture is quiet, and lit, and expansive.

There were buildings off in the distance, with smoke coming out of the chimneys. The man could walk there because it’s an easy walk, because it’s a mown pasture with buttercups in sunlight.

The buildings with smoke coming out of the chimneys are at the base of a beautiful mountain range, with various peaks of various elevations. Several of the tall peaks are perpetually covered in cloud.

It’s like the buildings are a base camp to leave from and return to after ascending the peaks, or attempting to. They are the home base. They are where one leaves from and returns too. They are safe, comfortable, renewing, enjoyable, and right.

But the buildings exist to leave from, in order to attempt the heights.

And they are there to return to, to comfort, restore, and renew and replenish until one sets off and tries again.

There are other climbers in the buildings. Stories are shared, tips and advice given, with much laughter.

And, everyone there knows each person has their own journey, and it can only be taken by that one. Stories are very different than the real thing, and the real thing only happens in the experience of it.

Some climbers never return, having been swallowed in cloud.