Somehow, I kept climbing, though tired, hungry, and weak. Old, too.
At the top of the mountain, I spread my outer robe on a rock to dry, set down my staff and bowl, took a deep breath, and looked around.
It was windy up there.
As I was leaning back against a large gray rock,
the darkness I had carried up and down a million mountains
slipped off my shoulders and swept itself away on the wind.
—Bhikshuni Chitta, Therigatha