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With luck, you will end up lost...


With luck, you will end up lost.

To find oneself, first lose oneself.


There are magic worlds even today.

They are not on maps. They are not in time.



These places and their creatures have no names. And when you return to your home, you forget all about them...



This spring, I was standing on a balcony looking over a valley, and a small bird was in the sky far ahead. It flitted faster than I could see and stopped still right in front of me. It looked at me, and swooshed past my ears.


It took me to another spring, and another valley I had wandered into. I had no idea where I was. I stopped at a shop to eat.

What place is this? This place had no name.


They had rice and daal that they said grew here, in the valley. They pointed to a vessel over a slow woodfire. It was cooking slowly.


From their mud nests under the low beams above us, birds swooshed in and out through the smoke. Their beaks and wings and tails ended in needlepoints. Now they were too fast to see, now they were motionless.


A handful of us sitting around a fire, with a dozen or so birds flitting about our heads.

What is time?

Outside, it cooks us. Here, it is cooking.


Then I drove on, into the valley. From the road, a patchwork of small fields stepped down to my right, and then rose up from the stream at the bottom of the valley. The houses, white with blue doors, were pushed up on the hillside. Children in red sweaters and red caps were walking, single file, through the fields.

A line of red flowers in a patchwork quilt of green and white.



Suddenly, I was out. And I was home in a few days. I have never returned to that valley. I don’t think I ever will. The bird looked at me and reminded me, otherwise I had forgotten.

I have no desire to know its name.


We know each other well from many springs ago.

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