my mother, the mountain

It’s these mountains, they call to you, peaks and valleys alternating, reaching out to meet the sky. But always just one step too far away.

Their dark blues mingle with the light blue of the sky and the green velvet of tree tops spread out across the wide shoulders of the mountains like a luxurious cloak. In front of you, even right at your feet, grow multicolored wildflowers, beautiful and serene, pushing their way to the wind and sun and rain in a haphazard way. They give the distinct impression that they were deposited at random on the wind- which they surely were.

Nature doesn’t plant itself in even rows, convenient for human feet to pass by. Nature doesn’t keep itself in pens, constructed by wooden or metal posts or feed lots. Nature doesn’t eat out of bird feeders.

Nature is spread out before us- a lovely patchwork of a communal quilt- sewn over time, passed down from generation to generation. Holes are patched up, older pieces are replaced or sewn over, the old mingling with the new, frayed at the edges, devised to keep one warm and always strikingly beautiful. The threads that hold it together are strong and the pieces fit together are overlapping or barely touching.

The quilt gets laid out over the bedrock, laying there serenely, protecting the vulnerable shapes below through the harsh, cold night…as the full moon bathes it in light and refreshes its strength for the coming day.

Mt. Rainier National Park, WA

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