Taal (pronounced Ta-al) is one of those places. So elegantly made it enters you, meeting no resistance, and sets about re-ordering the constellations in your mind. It stands simply, beautifully, gently, firm. Offering itself as it must be offered, as nothing other than what it is. Bare and lush. Hard and liquid. Possible. It is a place you have never quite imagined, but it strikes you as highly possible. It adequates itself to a certain meandering perfection, like a tune from Bach. I could have taken up residence, because the view made sense, spoke eloquently of chance and of change.

Taal is a word that calls attention to itself. A word that lies in wait, deferrent but irreverent toward time's passing. The landscape of the volcano is itself a sort of code, an expression of evolved and departed realities. A word. One senses certain eternal aspects of one's being. The water, the hidden fire, these are within us.

It is cooler, the air is cleaner, here in Tagaytay, in the mountains. One is beckoned to pause, to 'take time', commune with the quiet posture of the hills, the verdure of things unsaid. The thought occurs in me that I will recall my time here as a visit to a holy place. I do.

Holiness has direction. It is a spirit made arrow, leaning away toward some variant of the Elsewhere. At Taal, it seems there is a sublime access to what is often difficult to see. Secrets and gentler truths creep out into the open. Bent or damaged thoughts are healed. It is already a successful day.