Two springs ago, my husband John and I realized one of our dreams: hiking the Inca trail to Macchu Picchu. Four unforgettable days and nights at incredible altitudes challenged our bodies, fortified our minds and uplifted our souls.

The second day was the toughest, as we climbed up the highest pass on the trail: the appropriately named Dead Woman’s Pass at 13,829 feet. Indeed, I felt dead a few times, taking many breaks on the unforgiving Inca steps, trying to catch my breath. I seemed to have no control over my breathing, as it heaved erratically. I felt I could never breathe normally again. The altitude forced me to confront my humanity, and with it all of my weaknesses. But the challenge also sharpened my purpose and, whatever the difficulties, I knew I would reach the top.

After a welcome and congratulatory break at the top of Dead Woman, we put our warm jackets on and started the descent to our next stop for the night, our small group scattered on the trail. John and I took our time. The steep stone steps wound their way down the wildly beautiful Andean mountains surrounded and dwarfed by snowcapped peaks. Painted across the blue skies, the forest of clouds hovered over the majestic scenery. Silence was as pure as the air.

It felt as if we were literally walking in the hand of God.
Each breath, each step a conscious echo of His presence.
Then magic happened.
A note.
Two notes.
More notes.
The sound of a flute floating from and around the mountains, the clouds and the sky all the way toward us.

The sound of a flute in the middle of nowhere.

And then we saw him, walking toward us, playing his pipe. An older native Peruvian gentleman wearing a red jacket, a hat, sandals and, around his shoulders, a small colorful woven shawl that also served as his backpack.

He greeted us and I asked him to continue playing for us.

Play for John and me, on the Inca trail, in the middle of nowhere.

He did, and then went on his way, his music gently floating away, leaving behind a sprinkling of stardust.

And a little bit of magic.

How many times, on the trail of our lives, do we encounter pipers, messengers?

How many times do we hear them, see them?

They are messengers that can only be sensed through our third eye, our intuitive intelligence, our soul.

We are too often deaf and blind to the calling of our inner voice.

We don’t hear, we don’t see, we don’t feel what really matters when we are too occupied and distracted by the noises of the world.

We need stillness.

We need moments of our own.

We need meditation.

So we can hear.

The Piper on the Trail of our lives.

Excerpt from my book Yoga with a French Twist: a Journey through the Chakras