When I am sufficiently immersed in sound, or color, or light, or darkness, I lose the sense of where I am.

Individual voices blend and become one note.  A glacier rises above me grey and unbroken, and I think it is merely the twilight air.  I lose the contours of my room in the flat blackness of midnight.

I step back, and the dresser emerges; the bookshelf; the rocking chair; and I realize where I am.

“It’s St. Mary’s Lake,” I am told; and suddenly I see the stark, bleak contours of the glacier’s majesty, hard and solid but also in constant motion.

I close my eyes, reach out my hand to touch another hand, and one voice emerges from the din.  I move away and the voice follows me:  Clear now, distinct, separate.

I sit at a distance, then; watching sum separate itself from the whole; seeing the trees and the forest; letting the sureness of my understanding wash over me.

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