There is a tribe of no­mads and trav­el­ers orig­i­nat­ing in the moun­tains of West­ern Mon­go­lia and Cen­tral Siberia with pock­ets in the Pa­cific North­west and as far as New Jer­sey and Al­abama. These ex­plor­ers travel light and carry lit­tle. Their largest bags are those filled with their sto­ries, their mem­o­ries, and their Love.

They are sus­tained by a dy­namic bal­ance of Com­mu­nion and Au­ton­omy, of Sup­port and Free­dom. To them it is as nat­ural and nec­es­sary as breath­ing — com­ing to­gether, let­ting go, com­ing to­gether, let­ting go.

When two such no­mads meet each other, after briefly paus­ing to honor the Mys­tery of Change, they hug em­phat­i­cally. The cer­e­mony is a reaf­fir­ma­tion of the par­a­digm that sus­tains their re­al­ity — com­ing to­gether in Com­mu­nion, then let­ting go in Free­dom.

Rid­ing across the Gobi desert to­wards the Cen­ter of En­ergy last sum­mer, our small van packed with pil­grims popped a flat. While the dri­ver put in the spare and we idly watched camels roam along the hori­zon, a young boy, who was study­ing to be­come a shaman, taught me the rit­ual.

We marked par­al­lel lines in the dry earth, and stood op­po­site each other.

“This is the Panok-la, or Path of Now, sym­bol­iz­ing the gap be­tween Per­cep­tion and Aware­ness, from which New­ness emerges. As we ap­proach one an­other along the Path, be filled with the Wind of Mys­tery, and open to your yearn­ing for Com­mu­nion.

“When we reach One Place on the Path, we hug. Be That Hug — a whole greater than the self.

“As you let go,” the boy ex­plained, “let In­tel­li­gence bow to the Di­vine Imag­i­na­tion, and set me free. At the same time, you set your­self free.”

Com­mu­nion and Au­ton­omy, as nat­ural and nec­es­sary as breath­ing. But Time is not only a sus­tain­able cir­cle, it is also a line that ac­crues. The most in­sid­i­ous ma­te­ri­al­ism is the karmic ma­te­ri­al­ism, the ma­te­ri­al­ism of doing.

“Do you own this Hap­pen­ing?” the ris­ing full moon asks me, when the dew freezes and re­flects the re­flec­tion, as I bivy alone in an alpine meadow in New Zealand.

The back­pack full of sto­ries and mem­o­ries is al­ways the heav­i­est. Who are you? Can you let it go? Can you die to your Self? Even the wis­est no­mads I’ve met strug­gle to lighten the load. Bur­dened, we suf­fo­cate. We fall to­gether, then fall apart. Fall to­gether, fall apart.

Only our Love Suit­case is weight­less.