The Mountain

Mount Diablo, CA

If I were the mountain I would love April best. The winter chill would be behind me, and although I enjoy the occasional unexpected snowfall, I prefer the warming winds of Spring. I would rise high above the valleys, my two peaks no longer obscured by dark winter rain clouds, my foothills no longer covered by dense blankets of tule fog.

In April my meadows would still be richly green, would not have turned golden yet with the sun’s heat, and would be filled with wildflowers. In my creeks there would be flowing water, so rare and short-lived here, and more precious than any gemstone. And as with Spring everywhere, the birds would be singing in the dawn while the night was filled with the calls of owls and the occasional coyote.

I wish that I could stand like the mountain, strong and unbending, my head in the clouds. I want to feel what the mountain feels, and know what it knows.

But I am not the mountain, although it is a forever presence in my life.

Usually I look at the mountain from the West, from a distance of ten miles or so. Mine is a California landscape, green in winter and gold in summer. In the evenings the mountain glows, its slopes mirroring the rose-colored light of the sunset. During the days red tailed hawks soar high against the azure sky, above the ancient live oaks dotting the slopes. The changing light, clouds, and colors paint a fresh perspective each day.

It isn’t often that I travel far from the mountain, but when I do I find myself searching for it when I return. From a plane preparing to land near the Bay, or from a freeway leading me closer, when I see the mountain a familiar feeling of awe rises in me, inspired by its power and permanence and a sense of being in the presence of something spiritual and foundational. I know I’m home.