Images of Autumn wander aimlessly through my mind.
As I climbed the trail, slippery and damp, and caught my breath in awe of my first sight of Tendaki,
the roar of the Earth so powerful that the pinnacle itself must permeate the Heavens. 
Surely that`s where this water must originate. 
I watch as the whiteness floats from the rockfall, like ruffled feathers from birds on the wing. 
Mesmerized, lulled into a trance by the constant rush, feeling the wet breeze upon my face,
the mist in my hair,  I take a deep breath.  I feel the moist cool of the air and I celebrate being,
here in this place, this country, this world. 
My tears mingle with those of the skies.

Other images too, of wildflowers and burial mounds, the ground trembling,
sacred and untrodden, with the secrets from centuries past whispered in our ears. 
A foundation nearby waits to be explored, nursing delicate moss and tender vines
that camouflage its hiding place.  We walk across the river, boards creaking beneath our feet,
water babbling, like women having tea, and my step gets lighter and quicker. 
Little fist dart in and out of my shadow, making me wonder where they go
when I am not here.

Then, there at Kiyomizedera, with lights upon the temple, came the illumination
of grace and mercy, peace and hope. 
Again, the waters pouring from Heaven come flowing forth, tasting cool on my tongue,
sweet health and pure power, the promise of intelligence and long life and of an answer to desperate prayers.
So many that the wind called to me atop Seppiko,
and carried away as many as she could while I gazed over the valleys below me. 
The trees waving, proudly parading new colors. 
They remind me of ladies who can no longer wait to wear their new fall clothes,
and suddenly there are brilliant reds and oranges and the valley before me is aflame. 
So is my very soul.

And while seemingly there is an endless supply of words to discuss it,
a veritable plethora of cold adjectives and marshy idealism,
there remains an underlying malaise as I seek that much needed harmony,
that which will enable me to be part of it and feel like I belong there. 
Somehow, still, I still feel like an intruder, an eavesdropper. 
For now, perhaps, I must be content to take pieces of here and there and make them part of me
without leaving too much of myself to mar the landscape.

(copyright Lynley Asay 1999)