The mountains call me. That looks like fun some say. It’s not … fun. It’s something else. Punishment and reward. Mastering the art of suffering. How badly do you really want something? I suffer to stand where few dare to venture. A view where the world opens up wide – like being in airplane but not being limited by that little oval window. Two feet planted in the High Ground. On the Earth, up in the cool, clean sky. Birds flying beneath me. Clouds floating by so close I could step off the ledges weightless and stand.

I’m far from anywhere, tired. This high-place adrenaline will wear off soon. Tonight, I’ll sleep under the stars. Maybe I’ll actually sleep. Last night was not good. I slept in the back of my car in the deep dark woods. The windows, open a crack, let in fresh balsam air – like walking through the aisles of Christmas trees on cold December evenings. My sleeping bag is my comfort, but even with the seats down and additional padding, the space feels cramped and hard.

I replay my game plan in my mind. I’ve studied the map long enough to know where I’m going and what to do when I get there. I need rest. Turn off the brain. Relax. Don’t think about that cracking-twig sound outside the car. I’m safe. Nothing can come in. I wait. Silence. Breathe. Embrace sleep. And in the dark, the faintest scent of jasmine.

In my effort to pare down and refocus I send bags of possessions to Savers – clothes and books mostly. No looking back. Everything goes except for a few small things like a simple white candle in a sturdy gray paper box. I’ve never actually lit it. I’m saving it. For what though? It gets as far as my car and ends up in a plastic shopping bag with a set of jumper cables, some bungee cords, a pair of fleece gloves, an old map and a wooly hat. Over the summer the heat inside the car spikes, wax and essential oil melt and seep. The intensity makes my head swim with memories and emotion.

The next day I head to the car wash. And there is my candle in the box now stained with the jasmine oil. It’s just a thing, just another thing to rid myself of. Throw it away and in a little while – maybe faster than you think – you’ll forget you even had it. It’s just an old candle, which you never should have hung on to anyway. It feels the same as it used to when I’d keep in my bedside table; maybe a little worse for wear given the melting, but still the same.

I toss into the trash and promise myself to put it behind me once and for all. I’ll call it willpower. And sometimes I believe it.

Exorcising the object can’t erase the essence. The smell remains … for a long, long time.

But, all things must pass and even Jasmine scented candle loose their potency. Periodically though, just when I think its faded away completely, it returns to remind me …

“Whatever satisfies the soul is truth” – Walt Whitman.