The hardest prison to escape is the one whose walls are built by the mind in fear and trepidation. It is like the open gate you dare not enter fearing that you are leaving and will not be allowed to return. Atop a pole there are an infinite number of directions in which you can go and only one is straight down, but you fear selecting any, for gravity is a fear as great as death, yet you can feel neither. The prison of the mind is impregnable, for there fear and pain live in conflict and you are a small boat on an angry sea staring always at the roiling waves.
The man liked to cry out into the night, asking questions for which he knew there could be no answers, or if there were, they would be things he would never wish to hear. The coyotes in the hills would listen to his pleas, his entreaties, his moaning, and they would remember the spirits of the old ones gone, and yet back in their now-animal forms. One night a trickster sat on the mesa, and when the man began his questions, the trickster, orange eyes aflame spoke clearly, loudly, telling the man that the answer to each of his questions lay within himself, and he need only look there, if he had the courage, which the coyote knew, he lacked.
The entirety of this practice is to learn to walk with a lightness, so that you contact the earth, the grass, not tread on it, so that the earth and the grass caress your feet and not try to push them away, and all the while there must be a gentleness of breath so the sky can fill your lungs lightening you.
You should walk slowly, measure each step, insure your foot is in deep contact with the earth before giving its partner freedom, only to fall victim, in turn, to gravity. Steady your pace until it merges into your breath and the silence deafens you.