Alone on an island: mindfulness

At this very moment, as I type, I can see cars moving in an endless convoy down the main road. It’s a noisy flow of metal and smoke; a constant drone, ebbing and flowing with the tide of people. Across the road I see an apartment complex, one of those that seem as if they’re made of little TV sets piled on top of one another. I can see right inside – more screens, people on their couches, somebody playing the piano, a little girl trying to ride her bike on the balcony.

It reminds me of the bleak vision I have of the future.

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Punto Azul: On Loss

22.04.2015 Junin de Los Andes, Argentina

The icy breath of the mountain bit my fingers and my nose as the dark clouds gathered around the peak. My trusty hiking boots – they had been my mother’s before me – were as old as I was and they treaded over the black volcanic grit with ease. I walked through a tunnel of wispy trees that had moss hanging off the branches like the beard of a weathered man. Through the arc of foliage I could make out the expanses of black rock bared by the wind nearer the summit, until they were covered by the clouds. It had been ten years since I had been there, and it would be a long time before I would be able to return; I implored to the Pillan, under my breath, for the wind to change and uncover the mountain.

As I walked, I remembered when one of the park rangers had told me about the sacrifice that had put the volcano Lanín to sleep. Every mountain has a Pillan, a guardian spirit, who lives at the summit. One day, the youths of the cacique tribe of Huanquimil were hunting near the northern part of the volcano. They caught a deer drinking from a stream and slit its throat, his warm blood flowing over the rocks. In the instant that blade had touched the creature, the ground shook violently and the sound of drums came from beneath their feet. A pillar of smoke, like a black fungus, grew from the top of the volcano until the sun was covered by ashes. The youths ran to the moss-bearded shaman, who scolded them for their foolishness and said the only way to calm the wrath of the Pillan was to sacrifice the youngest daughter of the cacique, beautiful Huifún, in the crater. Qechuan, the youth who loved Huifún, promised to stay by her side and travelled with her to the crater, where he pressed his lips to hers in a final act of love. A thunderous shadow, blacker than the ashes and with eyes of fire, rose from the crater and released a deathly call; the giant condor tore Huifún from Qechuan with his mighty talons. He flew to the centre of the fuming crater and released the girl into the fire. Qechuan kneeled, distraught, at the edge of the crater, and snow began to fall lightly upon his trembling shoulders. From that day, every hundred years, the Pillan of Volcan Lanín sent his Condor to make a sacrifice, tearing someone who was loved away from the Earth.

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