Prayer Wheels of Himachal

Silence descended. The locals with chattering teeth splashed around in the water frolicking away. But I stood in silence.

I bent down and gingerly extended my arm and rippled the surface. I instantly withdrew my now numb hand. It felt like liquid ice.

I scanned for a shop. At the corner stood a rundown shed. With grit and a determined mind I stalked the vendor, begged and bargained a new pair of clothes. I was prepared.

As I stood at the brink, I thought of the course the mighty river had taken racing through the mountains to reach here, with as much regard to the path taken as the destination. I slowly peeled off the moments that clung to me. The shoes that held on to the mud of the past. The socks of shame, grime and dust. The cloak of fear of being stationary.
I thought of the friends lost and found. Relationships made, lasted and dusted. The strong currents of failures.

So what does moving on mean?

Sometimes it is a walk alone enveloped in a thick milky white mist- every step, back or front, unknown. Sometimes it is in chatting with a known stranger. Sometimes it is eating strange food from a little known chef. Sometimes it is sitting still in a monastery listening to their meditative chants. Sometimes it is accepting the hand and imitating the group dancing to the rhythmic beats of a folk song. Sometimes it is in making new friends – a different story told each time.

Sometime it is in just letting go. Living now.

I plunged.