Prana burns as fire; he shines as the sun;
He rains as the cloud; he blows as the wind;
He crashes as the thunder in the sky.
He is the earth; he has form and no form;
Prana is immortality.Prashna Upanishad II.5
In the mountains of a faraway land (as I promised not to divulge its true location), I went hiking in the stillness of the afternoon. Upon cresting the shoulder of a small mount, there, behind an outcropping of crumbling granite, regally sat a winged black Dragon.
"I saw what you did, my child," he said to me.
"What did I do, sir?" I asked.
"You used your staff to knock earth into that small hole in the ground," the Dragon replied. I remembered. I had been afraid it was a snake's burrow. "You fear the snakes, but you do not fear me?" the Dragon asked.
"No sir," I replied. "I cannot fear you, for you are not real."
"But I am real," smiled the Dragon. "I am real, for the snakes are me, and the rocks and the heather are me. The birds and the pikas and the frogs, they are all me. The rushing wind and the trickling water, these too are me. Do you understand?"
The Dragon had disappeared, but within my very heart I heard his voice beckoning. "Come, my child, come with me. I shall take you home."
"Wait for me, I am coming," I called out after him. Breath filled my lungs, and across stone and heath I ran, my feet lighter. Ascending, the summit opened up to me, and I could see for hundreds of miles and millions of years in all directions.
And the Dragon was there because the rocks were there, because the birds were there.
The dragon was there because I was.