Mountains pull at us in a romantic, magical way. We marvel at their foreboding nature. Silent watchers. Protective friends. They have seen so much over millions of years and we just pass through — a blip on their radar. A blink of an eye. For a moment, we are strange neighbors.
Each time we are surprised by the beauty of it all. Of simply being out there. We do not stop and think that this experience is wholly natural. Recognizable. It is life itself. The mist in the air comforts and soothes us. Lush, green trees and wet, pine scented air whisper their hellos. We feel at home, even though our houses and apartments are left empty as we walk. A certain peace hums below everything. It calls from the rivers and the trees, down in the valleys and up on craggy summits.
All we need is in front of us; we are reminded of beauty at every turn, from the people and the mountains and the trails and the rivers. If we strip it all away—the pressures, the goals, the career—if we just listen to our hearts and ask what is true and real—it’s there. Outside. The answer is carried on whispering breezes and falling leaves. The mountains are a love story millions and billions of years in the making, between man and nature. Fire and water.
We are haunted by the rolling, gentle, green hills that have existed long before us, and will exist long after us. The men and women and animals that have touched the ground and walked the paths leave their marks in the soil and on the rock. Pay attention. Feel them there. Stoic, eternal explorers. Breathe in. The smoke. The water. The fresh air. Breathe out.
Let it wash over you. A wave of wild renewal.