I know what it will look like when I die.
My life won't flash before my eyes. I won't see the faces of loved ones. I won't even walk through a dark tunnel into the light.
But I will walk into a new day.
For all of my talk about wanting to see the world before I died... I haven't yet told you what it will look like when I die.
It is these two scenes that I will either replay or relive – I'm not sure. Both are from the mountains and both are so ethereal that if you had told me when I experienced them that I was dead, I would have believed you.
I invite you to listen to this post, like a meditation guiding you into another realm.
I love the word breathtaking, a meditation unto itself.
To lose the breath – as though it is something to be chased.
To lose the breath – like a currency to be exchanged for a moment of awe.
To lose the breath – as though to fall briefly into the experience of death.
Do you catch up to your breath? Or does wait to catch you before you fall?
On our fifth day hiking Mount Kilimanjaro, we ascended above the clouds, into a vista that can only be described as breathtaking. All around me, less acclimatized hikers lost their breath and their minds, and in another way, so did I.
I gave my breath away to the heavenly beauty, an involuntary audible sigh leaving my lips like a prayer. I paid no mind to what anyone thought of my euphoric exclamations. They huddled in their tents away from the frosty alpine air while a delighted smile cracked my chilled cheeks.
Our tents perched on the side of the mountain, level with the sun, which painted the sky with every gradient of light I have ever seen in a sunset. The clouds floated below like the foamy crest of a warm bubble bath. Though the temperature was anything but warm, I stood outside of the tent and withstood the growing chill to watch the show from a once in a lifetime viewpoint.
My breath began to take shape in front of my face – ah, yes, there you are, I am alive – and the sun dipped below the horizon.
Eight days, seven nights we spent on Mount Kilimanjaro, and though there are many photographic memories that I will cherish from the experience, this one will usher me into the next realm – if it didn't already.
In the morning, I arose early with the feeling that sunrise would be just as spectacular, but I was wrong. It was more spectacular. I stepped outside of my tent into the wind that blew the night into day, in awe of the striking colors that streaked the clouds, now above us. How did they perform such magic? The moon appeared to be floating on top of the clouds. It was as if the clouds moved to caress the moon, to cradle it down from the sky.
Just below our camp was a path that cut across the mountain to a shortcut used by porters to re-supply each trekking team. I followed the path and stood on the ledge while tears of astonishment crystallized at the corners of my eyes. I gazed upon the little village of tents – dwarfed by the view of Kilimanjaro's Uhuru Peak. Was I touching the atmosphere, or was the atmosphere touching me? Every moment the colors of the sky transformed, saturating me with renewed awe and joy.
I spun around on my little rock and I laughed. My face felt like a popsicle but I didn’t care. I became very aware of the myriad of blessings that led me to be standing here on this mountain with this view, and I reveled in the feeling of gratitude.
What a time to be alive.
Karanga Camp, Mount Kilimanjaro, at sunrise: "Karanga" means peanut in Swahili. Which is delightful, really. Peanut, like the one you hold in the palm of your hand, or like the term of endearment for a small child. You can't say peanut without cracking a smile. 🥰 (Click any image to view larger.)
I have felt this feeling before.
Those rare moments when I feel the thrill of adventure, the sense that the stars have aligned, that I am exactly where I am supposed to be.
I am having the adventure of a lifetime.
The sensation is like a big exhale. The thought is: wow, what a ride. The view is unparalleled. Like nothing that I have ever seen.
I feel this feeling most when I travel. I don't know where I felt it first. Perhaps I am chasing the high of the Amazon, riding with the leader of the indigenous tribe in the fishing boat as the sky broke open and washed us clean.
I felt the sensation in Uganda, when I hitchhiked through a national park in a construction truck with an older gentleman who claimed me as his daughter.
And I felt it again in this campsite that danced among the clouds, erasing my awareness of myself as I disintegrated into the wonder of the experience.
I feel it when I witness a sight that I have never seen before, and will never see again. I feel it in the open-hearted generosity and kindness of humanity. And I feel it when I am forced to surrender to the power of nature.
I feel it when I become aware that I am on the ride.
I did always like roller coasters.
Perhaps because like a roller coaster, I feel the thrill of the unexpected, and the knowing embrace that I am safe.
I haven't told you the second scene.
This time, I am in El Calafate, Argentina. I am to catch a six-hour bus across the border to Puerto Natales, Chile, where I will continue on to hike in Patagonia. I gather my bags before sunrise, and tiptoe out of the hostel to walk the twenty minutes in the pre-dawn light to the bus.
I close the wooden door quietly behind me, and there is a dog, waiting on the porch. I smile and say hello, and as I start to walk, it runs ahead.
I follow in the same direction as the dog, my small suitcase bobbling on the rough road behind me. The dog looks back, as if to make sure that I am still following it.
We continue on in this way, the dog always twenty feet ahead of me, checking that I am still there. How does it know the way to the bus station? It is as if the dog is guiding me.
As we walk the sun begins to rise in front of the dog, pink and orange against the pastel blue morning sky, and I am struck by the image, and the sudden sense that the dog is my guardian angel, ushering me into the light.
I don't have a photo of this moment. I only have the photographic and emotional memory, seared into my brain and body. That is the image I will see when I die.
When we reach the bus station, the dog doesn't try to get on the bus, but it makes sure that I do. It watches as the bus pulls away, and then it turns to begin its journey back to the hostel.
I don't know what will happen after I die, but these two moments feel like a whisper.
Don't worry. The sun will rise on another day, and you'll continue on the adventure.
How blessed are we to witness the wonder of our world. 🥹
