It is Winter


It is winter, and the land appears to be in slumber. In the frosty stillness of December 31st, I find myself in a modest bed, in Navarra. The old year bids its adieu, locks the gate, and tosses the key into the chest of memories. My thoughts still meander through what once was, yet the new year is already rapping at the albergue’s window. With the rays of January 1st, I embark on a journey out of town. The initial sunbeams rouse the landscape. The world seems brimming with promises, an empty canvas eagerly awaiting the brushstrokes of my experiences and aspirations. As I gaze upon the horizon, I comprehend that the box of magic lies in its perpetual cycle of endings and beginnings and that Life itself, resides in all the fruits nestled within.

The pilgrim, clad in snug attire, strides purposefully along the path. His breath becomes the fleeting witness of the westward journey. The landscape unfolds white and peacefully. The creatures of the land commence their gradual return to life, awakening with the first warming rays of the sun. Their fur, still lightly veiled by the night’s frost, glistens damp and heavy. Bushes and the fairy grass, adorned with the melted drops of the icy night, become mirrors for winter-bold insects. And so, I walk forward, immersed in the lively scene of the awakening morn. Nature welcomes me. It is a welcome, free and unpretentious and with arms wide open, inviting me on my way and leaving behind the cold and frost of the night. My walking stick grows into a living link with the earth, weaving a palpable connection, a magical bridge softly grounding me in presence. Each step grants me the privilege to be here, to witness the spectacle of nature, to meld with the pilgrim’s shadow and never have to surpass myself. We are constant, attentive companions who rendezvous as the light of day unfolds. Thus, I embody the morning awakening and merging into experiencing what it means to be everything instead of having to make a choice. The frosty morn settles on my face as the moisture of my breath succumbs to January’s frigid air.

Every day unfurls as uniquely as the last. At times, vibrant and teeming with life. Other times, I walk into the mist of a cloud-shrouded morn. The damp cold slips beneath the layered clothing, and I quicken my pace. Is it pivotal to seek the path of being, or is it the very essence of what I live, as I turn toward it? Could it be that I am the path itself, and every footprint etched in the snow might represent that inexorable force delicately ingraining itself into my memory like fragile ice flower patterns? This sweet misunderstanding presents itself through these inquiries. The mind quests for answers, oblivious to the soft-spoken truth that the mountains, fields, animals—all that surrounds me—spontaneously lay the answers before my eyes. The land doesn’t inquire about the meaning of life when the breath of mist slowly dissipates over the winter fields and the path where my hiking boots leave their traces does not deviate.It is winter, and the land is alive.

Schriften & Poesie


Paris 1923
It is Winter