When you enter a story, the story is changed by your entrance.
Here in the Thompson, we pass a juniper and a boulder, cross paths with a young pine, and approach the cliff face on which the story is written.
Or, rather, anchored. Figures come into focus left and right, out of peripheral vision.
We pass them. And yet they anchor us, and out of their shape and position, a relationship forms.
The bear and cub below, for instance, look out behind us, on guard.
Now we are in a state of hyper acuity. Mind and nature have joined, so to speak. So when anything changes, like, for instance, the sudden flight of a doe and her yearling…
it passes through the state we have been placed in, and changes it, just as we changed it by arriving. The stone does not change, and has not spoken. It can’t. It’s stone.
Yet it provides a ground on which intimate knowledge, and relationships, are made alive, in a conception in which body and mind are not separated.
And so the cleft in stone gives forth not only juniper, daughter of water and fire, and deer, which the slope takes away to the left, but places them within a body that your mind becomes one with when you enter its relationships. When you leave, it remains as your memory. When you return, you do not return in “time” (that is a concept foreign to this earth) but to the change in relationships.
It is not translatable into “meaning.” It is not that kind of world. Meaning requires intention. The significance here exceeds meaning.