For the first few weeks, there was some semblance of daylight. Then, for a few weeks, we shared the glow of daybreak together. Now we meet in the cover of darkness. At times, I can barely see her, but still I know she is there.
I have found myself a bit rudderless in these months. I am used to having a landmark to center me. For many years, it was the North Cascades. The outline of their jagged peaks against the glow of the rising sun. And even on cloudy days, when they were not visible, I somehow still felt their presence.
For many years, it was the view of Mt. Spokane. Sometimes green and bald, sometimes white and snow-capped. But again, a steady presence. A landmark to orient myself to. Something constant. Something bigger than me.
It was a sad day when I read that the highest point in Minnesota is 2,300 feet. An even sadder day when I learned that the Black Hills of South Dakota are the tallest point between the Rockies and the Swiss Alps. What would I do without my mountains?
Let me be clear: she is not a replacement. I will always need my mountains. But she has proven to be a faithful companion for this stage in the journey. Our meetings are brief, but each time, I feel my center lower...sometimes by millimeters, sometimes by centimeters.
She never says much. Of course, neither do I. But somehow in her silent flow, she communicates the truth I most need to hear. And somehow, although she is forever changing, I feel the comfort of her constant presence. I feel the strength in her wide girth. I feel the life in her waves.
And while she will never be a mountain, I like to think that she may meet a few of them along the way as she continues on her journey.
And I'm sure, if I ask her, she'll bring them greetings from me.
