Mountains, Again

I’ve been waxing euphoric about mountains the last several days, and I see no reason to stop. Because I enjoy these mountains, the mountains of Big Bend. It’s tempting to say they stole my heart, but it’s more appropriate to say I made a place for them in it. After all, they have no idea I love them. And that’s cool. It comes with the territory of loving a place. And I’ve loved a fair number of them. I love London. And New York City. And Bolivar Peninsula. And the Nueces River. To name just a few.

None of them have any idea I exist, but they all have nurtured my soul at some point. And it feels to me that the mountains of Big Bend might be the place that takes me home, helps me get across the finish line. As I left this time, I thought how nice it would be to come back on my own, to perhaps bring a manuscript and work on a book, or bring my guitar and work on a song, or just bring myself and work on my soul. It’s not that my days are numbered, it’s just that I’ve reached an age where logically you could say the end might be in sight. So, I tend to think about that and what I might like to do with those days.

And what I’d like to do is be at Big Bend, in the mountains, or by them. Walking the trails. Climbing a bit. Or just sitting and looking at the colors as the clouds pass over and the sun shines down. I’d like to be there when it rains, when the wind blows, or a storm comes in. I’d like to remember old oceans, mountains belching fire, and rocks cracking with the moving earth. I’d like to experience time. To know that my entire life, no matter how well lived, is less than the blink of any eye in the history of the universe. But also to know that while I am aware, I am unafraid.