Try as I might, I cannot seem to find the path that assures me I will not fall from a high beam into a canyon on one side or a deep stream on the other. No matter how closely I try to pay attention to the strip of ground in front of me, it seems always to be hidden by fog and encroaching darkness. There was a time when the sound of a water in the brook next to the path guided me—or, at least, steered me away from the precipice. The water is frozen, now; a layer of ice too thin to hold my weight but too thick to hear sounds to warn me away from the danger of falling in. I cannot step forward or backward without the risk of falling through the ice or plunging into the canyon.
My safety is not my concern, though. The risk to me is of no consequence. Protection of the light that sustains me is what matters. The safe return to radiance of that brilliant glow is what counts; the only thing that counts.