When they set out from the town, the weath­er seemed merely cool, wintry, but not true winter. By the time they had climbed the moun­tain, real winter was there to greet them. Snow up to the ankles, rime on the trees, which the fierce gusts knock from the bare branches numb and stiff with cold. A white quilt cov­ers the stones of the moraine, softly tak­ing from the tumble of boulders its Cyc­lopean ter­ror. The route is famil­i­ar; they know which way to head, and it is not their first time here. And yet in winter everything is dif­fer­ent.

The path they have walked a thou­sand times now seems strange. What beck­ons in spring now repels. The giant trees fallen across the path seem like omin­ous signs: thus far and no fur­ther! Of course they climb over them and press on, res­ol­ute. And they need to be, for the wind, as always, blows in their faces, tug­ging at their coats, slip­ping under their clothes, numb­ing their limbs. Now and then an inno­cent step breaks through, a fathom deep, into the snow-covered hol­lows, but the frost has not yet conquered the stream. Only the stones at the edge of its bed are trimmed with a hem of ice.

There is little light, and the driv­ing snow tries to take away even that little. They have long since left the beaten track behind; only the edging of trees marks the path. Vir­gin snow – no one has trod­den it yet. It feels good, and it is weary­ing too. The trod­den way is com­fort­able and dull, the untrod­den full of mys­ter­ies and fraught with incid­ent. At times the moun­tains grumble, the whis­per of the pines grows louder, and the wind whirls up the snow. Everything seems to con­spire against them. And the dis­tance seems to have mul­ti­plied. A hun­dred times longer than ever before.

The wind, as though it tore at them less, has grown no warm­er, but per­haps its onslaught is less fierce. They hope they are close now, and yet the sur­round­ings seem unfa­mil­i­ar. After a minute of look­ing about they are ready to move on, but no, this is it! They have arrived. The howl­ing of the wind sud­denly gives way to the music of the spheres, the bil­low­ing clouds part and the weary disc of the sun breaks through, a moment's peace amid the ordeal. After the hard-fought walk, arrival at last, not only in body but in soul as well.

The cluster of three trees. It might have been a single tree, or a pair, but no: three spring from one root. This is where they were head­ing, to this root, to this stock. For them the stoutest is the image of God, the mid­dling one the teach­er per­son­i­fied, while the one that can least bear the weight of the snow is the dis­ciple, the etern­al man, they them­selves.

Not driv­en by the wear­i­ness of the way back, but moved rather by a long­ing for cere­mony, they bring out the tinder­box, the incense, a small candle. The wind is indul­gent and lets them light the fire; surely it knows that in the fire's wake its own way will be freer too. The snow lies thick­er at the foot of the trees, and as the three of them stand around the three trees, their feet sink deep­er into the cold blanket. They set the candle on the cold white quilt; it has not yet melted a chim­ney for itself, and they can light their incense. This too they plant in the snow, then they hold fast to one anoth­er. In the cold they have to stretch to reach one anoth­er's hands, snow slumps from the branches down their necks, but it does not mat­ter. They are togeth­er, the six of them… For a while they simply stand, hold­ing fast to one anoth­er, pressed close to the trees, defy­ing the harsh world out­side. With­in, it grows ever warm­er; some­thing shines through them. Then they break away from the trees and, with hes­it­ant little move­ments, then with ever surer steps, begin to circle the trees of the see­ing-place. They trample the snow, they dance with a will, the world whirls with them…

Sud­denly the peace is gone, the wind surges, the storm breaks loose, the trees roar. It is over, they must go. The moun­tains and the three trees of the see­ing-place have accep­ted their pray­ers, their homage and their offer­ings. The candle's flame went out long ago, but its light still shines at the foot of the trees and in their own hearts. The incense sticks have drowned deep in the snow, but they have sac­ri­ficed their fra­grance, and it has reached its goal. They have spoken their ques­tions without words, their move­ments have expressed their intent, everything is in order. The way back will be harder, and yet easi­er.

Without a word they gath­er their things. The sil­ver of the winter Sun hid­den behind the clouds streams down their fore­heads, bathes their faces in pre­cious light, shines into their hearts. The strength, the belong­ing… Yes, what you seek, O man, exists! The world always wants to attain things, sci­ence thinks in terms of the evol­u­tion of the world, but the wise know that what is needed is not to attain but to return, not to change the world but to bring about apokata­stas­is: the order must be restored. The order of God, of the teach­er and of man…