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remains hidden and what looks like a frozen river can quickly crack under the weight of a sled, ruining supplies and sometimes drowning dogs. Being early spring, overflow turned out to be a constant problem, but never bad enough to force us to turn back. At the end of each day my arms had new bruises from breaking so many falls, and my boots were usually soaked with water. When we mushed we looked like a band of jesters, a parade of men and dogs slipping, sliding and staggering through winding rivers. The routine was the same whenever we made camp: remove the harnesses and tie up the dogs. Melt snow for drinking water. Look for deadwood to saw for cooking and heat. Feed the teams. Set up the tent. Eat dinner. Go to sleep. The mornings were miserable, with temperatures five or ten degrees below zero, even at the beginning of April. Any piece of clothing that so much as brushed against water the day before was frozen stiff when we woke up. My fingers were so numb that hooking our dogs back onto their tug lines took ten times as long as it did later in the afternoon. But after the teams were fed and we'd had coffee, the rush of wind that lapped my face as our sleds raced out of camp made the morning's travails a distant memory. One night, as we camped beneath the Endicott Mountains, I left the tent for a walk down to the river. The dogs, silent but watching me with eyes like white moons, were curled into balls to shield them from the cold. I was cold too. And tired. I'd been so usy dealing with the day-to-day chores of handling my team that 'd forgotten what it was that had brought me to this spot on the arth. But as I stood there alone on the ice and looked over the ks into the purple sky, I suddenly remembered. The dark night erupted before me. Waves of white-green ight scrolled across the heavens. It was the aurora borealis. The rn lights. I'd seen them before, years ago, but never from is perspective. They were directly in front of me, staring me in the ceo Beckoning. I watched their pulsations like one watches anthers in the wild-with awe and amazement. I knew then and ere that I was in the presence of something untamed and ntameable. Transcendent and mysterious. Something that warmed y blood and made my soul tremble. I'd found what I came for. We made it back without any serious problems, and during flights from Fairbanks to LaGuardia, I had a lot of time to lect on my experiences in the Land of the Midnight Sun. I still ink about them to this day. I've thought about the aurora. About grizzly. And I've wondered why those two awesome and nsformative experiences have served as such powerful paradigms r me in my ongoing-and seesaw-quest for spiritual satisfaction. Alaska has been my point of contact between the orld of the flesh and the world of the spirit. It's been my nai. And when my soul sags-as it now too often does-under the weight of an as yet unrealized religious vision, it is the memories of that place that keep me going. Alaska has taught me about enduring the trauma of revelation, the raw shock of the encounter with transcendence and mystery that precedes inner change. History has also given us dark revelations, revelations of evil and pain. These, too, we must endure, and not allow to enslave us. transformation takes place. Transcendence isn't something we can measure, mystics note that an egg must break before a chick can be born, that a seed must decay before a plant can rise from the soil. It is in the shadow of trauma that real and lasting The control or put on an altar. It's as wild as a grizzly. As ungraspable as the northern lights. Flashes of transcendence are the sparks of divinity, very real, very present, but ultimately intangible and indefinable. And that's the point where we find God: in the cloud of unknowing. Although we're usually able to experience only the traces of that unknowable mystery, just to brush against them, if left unfettered by human hands, those traces can change our lives forever. No one should have to travel to the Arctic in order to find the Absolute Frontier. The transformative power of the divine mystery should be accessible to all of us through our everyday lives. But first we must sweep out of our houses of worship the rags of religious models that have failed to catch fire, and make room for new paradigms. Just what the temple, mosque, church or synagogue of the next millennium will look like is unclear. What it can't look like is becoming clearer-not just to those of us on the inside, but to all those who break into a cold sweat whenever they have to walk through the front doors. If religion doesn't ignite the spiritual sparks tha lay dormant within and around all of us, if it doesn't and reshape our souls, then it loses the very feature tha makes it so unique and valuable among the treasures the world. It also loses those of us who want it the most. Author Niles Goldstein is the voice behind Microsoft Network's Ask the Rabbi, http://communities . msn .com/j ewish •

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