Years and years and eons ago, when I was finding my way back from the shadowland of cancer, I made myself a promise. If I get through this, I'm going to the mountains. Which, I did.
I traveled alone by car on a pilgrimage to the town of my birth, then the town of my youth, then to my spiritual home, up in the bosom of the Rockies.
There, I felt the terror which had taken up residence in my spirit loosen its grip. And the whispers of pine boughs proved more compelling than the ghost voices my mind was conjuring. The high, clean scent of pine needles releasing their essence cleared my nose of its memory of hospital stench.
I spent hours hiking. And even more hours sitting next to icy streams, dipping in up to my ankles until my bones ached cold with fresh life. The fear, shame, grasping, loathing, horror of it all found its place. And it's place, among the mountains, wildflowers, streams and clouds, was utterly infinitesimal. As am I. Nothing was more comforting or more astonishingly beautiful.
Today feels like a good day to give thanks.
So, thanks.
Jeannie
