There’s a crack I haven’t entered,
A cavern left unseen.
A summit still untouched,
And many more between.
I don’t know where I’m going,
Or what I hope to do.
But I could choose a place,
And maybe make it new.
I might go all alone,
Or ask someone to come.
Still unsure of where I’m heading,
But maybe that’s not wrong.
There’s movement in the waiting,
And truth in standing still.
The map won’t bring the answer.
But turning the handle will.
Some things drift
until they settle.
Some things rest
until dislodged.
Moss holds
what it can.
Current moves
what it must.
Here a spring joins a river.
Where underground meets surface.
Where the hidden below becomes part of the flow.
We often speak of seasons
by their limits.
Dread, when nature
flips the light switch off.
Freedom, when it flips back on.
But “first snow”?
Sometimes that’s in June,
6 a.m., unzipping the tent flap.
Not a closed gate. Just rhythm.
“Fall colors”?
They look a lot like alpenglow
on a peak in July.
Or noon on the Colorado Plateau.
And “camping season”?
That always draws a chuckle…
from those who never stopped.
The season that gets me, though,
is mud.
Saturated ground,
sliding beneath careful steps
that still leave deep prints.
A system in flux.
A landscape between forms.
Not frozen. Not firm.
Not ideal when you’re searching for solid.
Heavy with what came before.
Still shifting underfoot.
Every step a question:
Will this hold?
Or will I slide?
And like true mud season,
it gets everywhere.
In the seams of your boots.
Under your nails.
Hard to clean.
Impossible to ignore.
You don’t blaze trails in mud season.
You move carefully.
You notice things.
You learn where the weight really sits.
Some seasons ask for caution.
Others offer clarity.
Mud season does neither.
It just… holds you.
Or doesn’t.
Mud season doesn’t end
with a breakthrough.
It ends with a freeze.
Stillness. Structure.
Something that finally holds.
Hopefully,
winter is coming.
In Case of Emergency?
Or Inefficient Cope & Escape?
Either way: tension and friction.
The prusik isn’t elegant.
It’s what you grab when things go sideways.
A clumsy little hitch that grips the rope
just tight enough to hold,
and maybe, just maybe,
get you climbing again.
It’s slow. Awkward.
Powered by hope and swearing.
It works… if you remember what holds.
A few inches at a time.
Shedding fibers along the way.
I’m drawing this one dot at a time.
A few inches per session.
Like climbing the rope,
but quieter.
No panic.
Just presence.
A mirror to the first chapter.
To cliff edges and parachutes.
To the moments we all try
before we know better.
Dot Dot Line. Dot.
.. -.-. .
Micron on Bristol
Featured in Chapter 1: The Smoke
Underground Echoes: Book 1 of the Safe Exposure Series
Fall 2025: Text-only Field Edition (ebook)
February 2026: Illustrated Print Edition
Some things hold.
Some won’t.
Some things break.
Some don’t.
They… echo.
Through time.
Through body.
Through silence.
Through the pause
…right before.
You thought you’d buried it.
Or the ashes meant it was over.
But silence isn’t always stillness.
And distance isn’t the same as healing.
Some systems collapse suddenly.
Others… sag and stretch.
Too quiet to notice.
Until they pull you off balance.
That doesn’t make you weak.
It means you’re still connected.
Still tethered to what mattered.
Even if it hurt.
Even if it hurt.
Some echoes are pain.
Some are pattern.
Some are just you,
remembering in the dark
what light once felt like.
Not everything has to be fixed.
But some things deserve to be heard.
Some echoes reach for the surface.
Step. Breathe. Step.
The system doesn’t care what day it is.
Only whether you remembered.
You don’t test a system once.
You test it every time you trust it,
and every time you forget.
Gravity doesn’t care if you’re tired.
Or if you’ve been through worse.
Or if you just want it to be over.
It doesn’t care that you triple-checked earlier.
That you’re “usually solid.”
How tough you are.
Or how cool you look doing it.
Forget one stitch, one strap, one clip…
and the rope won’t argue.
It will simply respond.
That’s the thing about systems.
They don’t need belief.
They need respect.
And respect is measured
in preparation,
in repetition,
in honesty when no one’s watching.
That’s not drama.
It’s just… the cost of forgetting.
Systems shape us when they hold,
and when they don’t.
The rope goes both ways,
but only if it’s anchored.
Anchors don’t answer questions.
They answer load.
Tension doesn’t lie.
It reveals.
Some days the failure
comes from rushing.
Other days, from pride.
I’m learning that trust
isn’t a mood.
It’s a structure
you build in advance.
Stress doesn’t negotiate.
It exposes.
The system is quiet…
until it isn’t.
What holds?
The rope goes both ways.
Down through fear.
Up through effort.
Rope doesn’t argue.
It asks: Is your anchor honest?
If yes, you trust the system
and yourself
enough to descend
into uncertainty.
Some days the lesson
is courage on the way down.
Most days it’s discipline
on the way up.
I’m learning to respect both directions.
Commitment when stepping off.
Responsibility when returning.
The rope goes both ways.
So does living.
There are many paths before us,
With forks and twists and bends.
And many doors held open.
Some with, some without demands.
Some bear our names already,
In pencil, pen, or stone.
But most were written for us.
Big, small, worn, unknown.
Tradition pulls toward some.
Fear and habit pull to others.
Expectation marks the route
That’s taken many brothers.
Some paths ask you to shrink,
To mask what makes you whole.
Others require your honesty,
Clarity is their toll.
So find the one that fits you,
Even if it lacks your name.
And if a door demands too much,
Try another.
It’s OK.
I hiked today in silence.
Not to ignore the world.
Nor forget the news.
Not to retreat.
Not to hide.
Not to run.
No.
To be.
To feel.
To look.
To listen.
To repair.
To ponder and consider
how to keep stillness
in the middle of chaos.
To practice breathing.
Move with rhythm.
With purpose.
All of me.
As one.
One.
More.
Step.
There.
