Lo, the Dancing Mountains

                Lo, the Dancing Mountains

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I live at the foot of mountains. Each direction from my house, I see mountains. Some mountains march in a row. Some island mountains stand alone. Mountains are so changeable. I like that about mountains.

From my evening reading chair, I look onto an island mountain, not a great distance, juxtaposed against a far roofline. Sometimes the mountain edges off into the trees. Sometimes the mountain hugs closer to that house. Sometimes the mountain stands tall, sometimes snuggles the earth.

The mountains do not stand still. They dance about. Some days the mountains arise, tall like giants and some days the mountains hover, soft and low. The mountains change color too, but, we all know that. Sometimes the mountains disappear altogether, but they always return. Mountains are reliable like that.

I know there are rational scientific explanations for these things, maybe to do with atmosphere and the angle of light and such. To me science does not take one iota from the magic of dancing mountains. Science adds dazzling ingredients to the magic.

Today above the island mountains, those to north and east of me, huge narrow, upright columns of pure white cloud loom, climb high into the sky. The columns appear much like volcanic eruptions, although these mountains have been dormant for a few years. I like watching these columns lift and grow and change and climb the sky.

I don’t own a television, but I’ve never had a problem entertaining myself.

At my age, one gets to be introspective with no apologies. I’ve been pondering Eleanor Roosevelt’s words, making them mine, that I am here in these times to be a witness.

For years, I’ve always said that in my next life I want to be a tree. I’ve changed my mind. I want to be a rock. I like trees. I like the pulsing life of a tree. However, a rock also has pulsing life, just softer and lower.

Building on the idea of being a witness, if I get to return as a rock, I’ll be around longer, will see more. Maybe my rockiness will emerge from volcanic activity, maybe otherwise, maybe I’ll live on one of the dancing mountains, here or there, maybe along a singing river.

I want it all. I want the burning sun to bake me. I want the freezing ice to crumble and crack my surface, to create crevices for the unknown to happen. I want the wind and rain to whittle away and burnish my surface. I want to see what life comes next. I want a dropped seed to find home in one of my crevices, to bloom and grow, maybe a tree.

Sondra Ashton         Looking out my back door

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