I felt sad to be leaving. I was not ready to exit that place of perfect peace. I went down to the river one last time to wash my feet, which felt like some sort of ceremony under the morning sun and obliging dappled shade. You know it when you are in a sacred place. It does not have to be labeled as such and no one needs to tell you what it is, you just know. When I go to the mountains and the forest, it does not feel like an escape, it feels like a return. A return to something that I do not remember in conscious images, but I know very deeply in my bones. It manifests a profound feeling of belonging that is stunningly immediate and complete, every single time. I cannot help but be convinced that I am immersed in the true essence of my origins; one of the pure portals to the heart of the world and the natural soul of existence. The experience is all-encompassing and undeniable. It is the return to the untold millennia of my past, before this body and self-consciousness, when I was unmistakably inseparable from the trees, the soil, the water, and the wind. Every time I end up in the forest, it always becomes a grateful surrender to that ancient and timeless truth.