I climbed a mountain, carrying a heavy bag full of love with me (literally) and in the high wind I turned around. And I saw a long-ago part of myself looking back at me from distant mountains, dark and misty mountains that looked like a magical kingdom. And I felt my heart in the wind.
Coming down from that hill, out of the weather, onto the tarsealed roads once more, felt like falling. Hours later, on the plains, in the darkness, I opened my door to a quiet night, windless, moonless, with cicadas gently singing their love. In that moment I landed again at last within my own inner ground.
I have several mountains inside me. I have hand-hewn roads, windswept grass, summer nights. Sometimes when I inhale, I smell wild honeysuckle and hot stones in a humid December afternoon decades ago. Other times, it's dusty carpet and old damp pine. I don't believe people stand in spaces, walk on earth, look up at the sky. I believe we are within place. We are nature. We breathe the sky, we breathe the forest fragrances. Pollen and cloud go through us, becoming part of us. Mountains press against the outer curve of our being.
So what happens to a person when they live in a concrete and glass city? Or a dirt and cardboard city? What happens to their body and their soul, breathing pollution, bashing always against hard angles of concrete?
I climbed a mountain and I never really came down.