Carrying flowers that I raised with care and cut, I climb a mountain. The higher I climb, the harder it is to breathe. The landscape beneath me seems to change every few seconds. The houses, villages, and even my fear become smaller. The world at the bottom of the mountain is as beautiful and vain as the flowers in my arms.
I place the flowers in a a small circle on the ground, and stand inside it with empty hands. Then, I light a fire and burn the flowers. As the joy and pain of the past burn away, I see another world in the smoke.
When I read about this healing ritual that originated from the Incan civilization, the image of burning flowers caught my eyes. Though precious, should we take them away and burn them to go forward?