It was a late fall New England afternoon, just heading into evening. The sun shone softly through the many layers of multi-colored leaves, as Ricky Jones  finally decided to pack it in and head on home.

The last day of the last weekend of deer season, and he hadn't gotten his buck. In truth, he had never gotten his buck, or a buck, or any buck for that matter.

He kicked angrily at a pile of leaves, and reached into his hunting bag for a beer. "Great, my last beer, too."

He popped the top off the now very warm beer, and poured half of it down his throat. Well, almost half, except for what went down the front of his vest.

* * *

Not too far away, old Ben Lomand took the old steps one at a time, leaning heavily on the rickety rail that ran beside them from the porch down to the well-trodden path leading to the well.

Today was his ninety-third birthday. As far as he could remember anyway. At least that's what the calendar said.

And, not that it makes that much difference, anyway. He'd always been pretty private about birthdays, and finally all those friends who'd make a fuss about it anyway had moved away or passed on.

"Yep, be goin' that way soon myself, I 'spect," he mumbled to himself, as he let himself down from the last step onto the path.

* * *

Two vortexes of energy, very different, yet with something in common. Connected, as are all things in the multiverse, by an invisible corridor of instantaneous, synchronous communication.

One, a boiling, almost random pattern of browns and reds, confined to a tight spiral column, moves in a seemingly aimless direction toward an abrupt and transformative confrontation with spirit.

The other, a graceful, swirling continuum of greens and blues and purples, moves slowly but steadily - and very purposefully - toward the final reward of a lifetime of spiritual labor.

* * *

Ricky trudged on noisily, rifle in the crook of his arm. He was not much of a woodsman when he was sober, and he wasn't exactly sober at the moment. And he was tired, and pissed, and anxious to get home. Which was - he looked around, and suddenly wasn't sure. He didn't recognize anything within sight. Well, no problem, he'd just retrace his steps.

He turned around, then turned around again. He shook his head. Must be back that way, between those two trees, I think. Yeah, now I remember.

He thought about unloading his Remington, but didn't make a move to do so. The light was fading fast, but just maybe he'd get lucky and run into a buck any minute.

* * *

Old Ben could feel the last precious rays of afternoon sunlight deep in his weary, arthritic bones. As he shuffled down the path, he was joined by Maha, his 12-year old brown and gold four-legged companion of dubious heritage.

Reaching down to stroke Maha's head, he was momentarily overwhelmed by a sense of gratitude and appreciation for the friendship of his far-from-dumb friend. "Can't rightly say you're a better friend than some humans I've had, but certainly as good. Yep, certainly as fine."

He turned a gentle corner which took him out of sight of the cottage that he had lived in since Cora had gone on. "What a beautiful soul," he thought. "My beautiful angel, Cora who read to me from Rumi and Rilke and swept me into her circle of Sufis and Theosophists and neo-mystics."

A tear welled up in the corner of his eye. "Seeing you soon, my dear. Not too long now."

* * *

Pulsating multicolored strings of energy erupt at the center of one of the vortexes, traveling the perimeter again and again until they are swept into the timeless corridor - immediately emerging at the other end. They stand out in sharp contrast for a few moments against the background of a another personality, a different mixture of karma, personality and perception. Then the strings change - as the background, too, changes, and become one with the complexity of shifting colors.

* * *

Out of a tired fog of dejection and self-humiliation, anger and fear - helped along with a generous dose of alcohol - Ricky thinks he almost hears something up ahead.

"Probably nothing," he thinks to himself. "I couldn't be that lucky."

But he hears something again, a rustling in the brush that sounds like … He turns his head from side to side trying to get a better sense of exactly where the sound is, or was.

"OK, I think it was over that way." He drops the beer can and shifts the rifle from the crook of his arm to the ready. "Come on, baby, come to papa. Oh yeah, come to papa you sweet thing, you."

* * *

Old Ben finally reached the well, and the little meditation platform that he had built next to it. He slipped off his sandals one by one and placed them neatly at the edge of the platform.

He turned and easily settled into the lotus position - legs crossed, right foot turned up on his left thigh, and left foot turned up on his right thigh. He rested his hands, palm up, on his knees and joined his thumb on each hand to his middle finger.

He allowed his body to relax into the familiar posture and within a few deep breaths felt at ease, silent, and vibrantly alert.

Moments passed, or eternities, it no longer seemed relevant. He re-membered his birth and then re-experienced each of the billions of moments that made up his life. A curtain seemed to be drawn back and other life memories poured over him and through him. He was there, he was everywhere, he saw it all and it all made sense. It was all complete.

From his expansive position, a small spot of whirling reds and browns caught his attention. And he noticed a thin line of light that rose from that spot toward him - and was actually attached to him - no, went through him and continued upward. He felt overwhelmed with joy, and love and compassion - and wondered what that might have to do with the small vortex - as he found himself rushing toward it to find out.

* * *

Buddy was annoyed that he hadn't really got a fix on the sound, and now there was hardly a sound at all. He brought the rifle to his shoulder and placed his finger on the trigger. He brought the sights up - I don't know, by divine intuition maybe - to focus on about the nearest that he figured the buck could be.

"Yeah, that's what it is, a nice big fat buck, coming for Buddy. Come on down!"

His brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed as he tried to make out any movement, any variation in color that might ...

"Whoa, right there", a splash of the right color against the darkening underbrush. "Is that ..."

And then it moved - and it was now or never, and probably too late already, so …

* * *

Maha sat at his master's feet, meditating in his own way, I suppose, until he somehow knew it was time to go. He got up and gently laid his right paw on Ben's shoulder.

* * *

From the chaotic swirling vortex, energy coalesced into hard matter and exploded into the corridor rushing toward the other, both in and out of time.

* * *

Buddy knew that this time, he had finally done something right. "Damn, got that son-of-a-bitch." He was sure that things were going to change from now on. He walked across the remainder of the meadow and through the opening in the brush that lead to the well.

* * *

Ben's body toppled over.

He was gloriously free at last. Exultation, satisfaction, completion and bliss. He soared on the cosmic wind, so high – so fast – so timeless.  Looking down at the young hunter, Ben knew that he too was a  seeker, that the young man had played his part to the best of his knowledge and ability – and had been at the right place at just the right time.

All is well. All is one. Well, and at the deepest and highest levels we are all one.