It’s kind of beautiful, watching my breath rise up around me as I balance over the wooden hole. Someone’s traced a snowflake in the snow crystals on one of the slats to the right, and my fingers get wet from holding the snow covered door shut when it won’t lock. It’s cold, but it’s livable. I am hypnotized by the silence.
Peaceful, I’d even call it.
I stay like that for a bit. Breathing in, breathing out. I probably only had to pee, but I’m almost meditating, a roll of toilet paper tucked under my chin for more practical reasons than not. It happens on occasion that I pause, take the moment that I have to be in that not-so-envious of places and extend it– or, at least, reflect on it– and realize that life is a constant redefinition of itself.
I want so badly to learn from this moment, to grasp that intangible presence of insight. But the silence is broken–by footsteps? by my realization that it’s actually cold?– and I step out, crouching my head to miss the top slat, bending to pick up the dry-sink-bucket-turned-pee-bucket-at-night that I just emptied, and I walk the foot-worn path of frozen sand to my ger door. What follows is the stuff of everyday: make a fire, yoga, re-stoke the fire that probably didn’t actually make the first time, eat breakfast, dress, school, home, forget every time that the frozen lock will stick to my bare hand, fire, repeat. Life as it is.
But then, once again, I step into the jorlon– that magic of places– and the world goes quiet, if only for one breath. In. Out. Beauty amidst excrement. God and shit (thank you, Milan Kundera).
Perspective, I think I’d call it.