Sometimes understanding does not come through thought or imagery. It comes as a feeling—a state in which, for a brief moment, a person stops experiencing separation from the world.

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One such moment happened on Breakneck Ridge.

Over time, that place became special to me. We returned there again and again, as if drawn to a point where connection could be felt more clearly—to wash the residue of the city from the body, to step out of its rhythm and return to something more fundamental. Cold Spring became a source we returned to year after year.

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That day there were three of us: Ruslan, Romualdas, and me. We climbed hard toward the summit, soaked in sweat, following white arrows painted onto the rock that guided us upward.

At the top, the view opened across the Hudson River, forests, and mountain ranges stretching beyond the horizon. From that height, the world rearranges. The valley, the towns, the roads, human structures—everything recedes. What remains is earth, water, air, and sky. In such moments, scale becomes clear.

We decided to enter a state of unity. Almost immediately, two rainbows appeared. For us, it felt like a confirmation—that we were not there by accident, that we had arrived at the right place.

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We are used to seeing the Earth as a background for life, as a surface we move across. But if you stay with it long enough, something else becomes visible. The Earth is not just a place. It is a vast, living system that has existed for billions of years. Mountains rise and erode, rivers change direction, forests appear and disappear, species emerge and vanish. Life does not stop. It transforms.

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In that space, a realization formed. The Earth knows. Not as an observer from the outside, but as the process within which everything unfolds. It knows me. It knows where I come from, where I am, what I am doing. It knows the moment my life will end, and it knows every human who has ever lived—from the first breath to the last.

This knowing was not distant. There was no indifference in it. There was acceptance. The Earth accepts all forms of life, all stories, all paths. And what appeared was a feeling that can only be described as love.

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Sitting on the summit, I felt the source of that love close, present, almost tangible. The stone in front of me looked ordinary, but the feeling did not come from a single object. It came from everywhere. It was not human love, shaped by expectation or fear, but something steady, quiet, and constant.

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The planet is a mother to all living beings. Everything that lives on it belongs to it. A person can feel alone, can believe the world is indifferent. But in that moment, something else became clear. A human is part of a vast system of life. Not outside it, not observing it, but moving within it. Fear loosens. You are not alone. You have always been held.

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We stayed until sunset and then began the descent. As usual, we used flashlights to catch the reflective trail markers. The slopes were slick, the path demanded attention. Romualdas had worn boots and forgotten his hiking shoes, which made the descent harder. At one point, he nearly stepped on a snake, but we made it down safely.

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Near the Cornish Estate ruins, we found a reflective jacket. We unfolded it carefully, and inside, in Russian, it read: “Go fuck yourself.” Seeing that message there, in upstate New York, felt precise, almost intentional, as if it had been placed for us. It was not the first time a place seemed to speak. The sense was clear: the cycle is complete. You can leave.

We exited the forest, crossed the road, and moved toward the Hudson shoreline. Along a dark path, we reached a series of small beaches. Deeper in the park, we passed the same cave marked I-R-A—a point we encountered repeatedly.

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By the water, we found a tipi made of driftwood, likely built by locals. We sat beside it. On one of the beams, a spider had spun a large, precise web. We directed a flashlight toward it, and insects began flying into the light. The longer we held the beam, the more arrived. We kept it steady until the spider found itself at the center of a sudden abundance.

In that moment, something became clear. Those under the spotlight may begin to believe the light is constant. But all light is temporary—even the beam of a flashlight.

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Then we moved closer to the water. We sat facing the river, looking at the dark surface and the mountain across from us. The river felt alive. I remembered the name given to it by the Indigenous people—the river that flows both ways.

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Before us was something vast and uncontrollable. It moved with a quiet force. Patterns crossed and folded over each other on the surface, forming a shifting structure, as if something immense revealed its presence through motion.

Above us, the sky was filled with stars. Ruslan lay on a mat, putting on his glasses, looking upward, laughing, occasionally flashing his light into the sky. At the time, we did not understand why he laughed. Later he explained:

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“When you lie there long enough and look at them, it’s like a curtain opening. At first you see a few, then more, then the entire sky fills. They begin to flicker differently, like they are responding. That’s why I laughed. And I sent something back with the light.”

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There was a sense that everything is connected through a single field—an invisible continuity running through all forms. Like an ocean filled with countless beings, yet unified by the same medium. We are the sensory organs of the planet. Through us, it experiences. It does not hold fixed answers. It asks through us.

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Rivers resemble veins within the body of the Earth.

Through our lives, we build connections, like a web forming between points. By changing ourselves, we affect those around us, and through them, the larger structure shifts.

The Earth began to feel like a living being. Billions of systems, processes, forms—yet one organism.

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As we had understood before: all of this is not separate.

The deepest realization of that journey became simple. My task is to remind people, through my work, of what we are. We are not outside nature. We are part of it. We are life taking the form of a human being.

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To remind myself and others that everything unfolding now is happening within precise conditions. Nothing is out of place. Choice matters. Everything has its time.

The river flows without hesitation. We move within that same current.

Wherever you look, you encounter the same presence again.

After this, I bowed—to the Earth.

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A strong wave of gratitude moved through me. For being alive. For breath. For movement. For the ability to feel. For my parents. For my friends. For the women I have loved. For everything that has been given.

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This state carried a quiet clarity. A sense of depth that did not need explanation. Something ancient, steady, present. A blessing to all living beings. Now I feel the depth of that presence.

And the love that holds everything within it.