Nonfiction
Between Dark and Dawn, Our Ancestors Await.
A story of curved walls, flames, presence.
Find Part 1 of this story here and Part 2 here.
And that brings us back to Khövsgöl and the end of a jarring ride through Mongolian countryside. Arriving at the edge of the vast lake, I exhaled. Things would be okay. I would be okay.
I settled into one of the traditional yurts, or gers, rented to occasional adventure travellers passing through an expanse otherwise inhabited only by locals (and sparsely at that).
The space was all wood, flames, presence.
Alone yet held, I curled under thick, bright blankets on a low-sagging cot. A wood stove squatted solidly at the centre of rounded walls and my world. Warming, protecting, restoring.
Even in summer, nights turned bitter cold. Still, the dawn draft nudging me awake through a circular smoke hole in the domed ceiling was tender. A gentle whisper escaping the Mongolian countryside as it stirred, stretched, and awakened with spreading light.
In this place, each day in the transition between dark and dawn, I’d watch my thoughts and my breath.
I practiced noticing when they’d slipped away again, each time registering a loss. One manifest…
