blog without a name

Snow came and was within it, unravelling and un-revealing before eyes that seemed to have nothing to do with Sight.

Up, up, out of the house to the mountaintop we drove – just to have a look - taking the old car, the grey one with skinny tyres, just like we needed to have that extra ounce of danger every time we went around a bend on the icy road.

Life is a work-in-progress, after all.

Rain turned to sleet to snow as we climbed, headlamps blazing through a blizzard-flurry of weather. Up, up we went, round more bends with the night closing in on us tightly, the storm raging on. Up into the dragon’s mouth.

Suddenly lost in the whiteout, we were enclosed in another world.

The snow became us, we became snow and what was never there slipped even further away, in the no-up, no-down of winter’s night on a bare mountain, exposed. At last, nowhere but here, lost and found in an instant, what was hidden revealed itself; cocooned, yet cracked opened – vulnerable, yet totally safe.

Freezing hands in wet mittens. Senses flooding through wide-open space, contained by nothing.

There was sledging, dog-chasing, snow-eating and hands forever stretching out to make sure other bodies were within reach, yet there was nothing but whistling white, white-on-white, a blanket of white, cold hard white and boundless, never-ending egg-whisked white.

The idea of me is lost – completely blown clean. The nameless wind whistles on through and All is slippery like satin, dissolving back into Everything.

There is nothing to to it! Snowstorms are just inquisitive that’s all, pushing their fingers into every rock, around every hill, into ears and eyes and mouths. Snowstorms are just eager to know, eager to experience This-just-like-This. After all, knowing can do nothing but find out, can it?

We retrieve the car, push her snow-socks on over her tyres and steadily on the slippery edge, turn back down through the beech trees, the snowline receding behind us, golden leaves laying out a burnished autumn path guiding us home. White wood-moths flit across the falling headlights and all eyes are wide open to the outside, searching for boar and deer in the undergrowth.

And if the car had plunged over that cliff into the darkness of the night, our deaths would have made no difference to anything. The continuum still continues As-Is, with or without that last thought of love sparking-off inside a dying brain, contained within a fading body, limply holding two battered children to a dead breast, held tight by the hands of a steadfast man, enclosed in steel. Even the wreath tied to the trees somewhere above the wreck would eventually disintegrate back to whence it came.

We are but snowflakes gently falling onto pure, perfect and untouched snow; appearing and disappearing as the blip on the screen, as the slight waver on the dial, as the static on the line, as Us.

And nothing sticks, not even sticky snow on clogged-up windscreens whirring through the dark. I was clinging onto fear, death, enlightenment and hope of eternal existence. I was clinging and clinging and the white snow bleached me clean, blasted me through and washed me down to nothing until the clinging could cling no more.

From each moment to the next, I know nothing and there is nothing to know, nothing to guard, nothing to protect. There is truly nothing. There is no one here to have an opinion, no one here to trust and no one here to believe in. I write myself into snow-white oblivion page after page, like every moment returning again refreshed and re-awakened. And Bliss is right here in every single forgetting, every unique remembering.

Life is in Good Hands and does with us what it will.