I practiced a walking technique the guides taught us that helped Yoga poses daily a lot as the air thinned and the terrain steepened. I forced myself to breathe in Yoga poses daily time to each step so that it naturally evolved into a sort of walking meditation pranayama on the slopes of Mt. Kilimanjaro. When we were all spread out a bit, each in our own world of thought or non-thought, it was easy to lose myself in my rhythmic breathing. I found myself sensing the journey, no longer merely walking it. I sometimes felt that I was my father as I walked along, strong and proud. At other moments, I could as easily have been walking amongst the intricate lines of a labyrinth. Looking down from where we were to where we had come from, there was a vast expanse of whiteness, a blank canvas.
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