Mountainspeak

Not all mountains speak with the sun-warmed nurturing voice of the earth. Some rise up to trickle glacial fingers down your spine as you walk in their midst, reminding you that you never were truly one with them. Some speak alien mother-tongues and demand your attention. Some thread fear through every step as forest undergrowth towers over your head, scrapes your skin and leaves you with a vague, irritated itch.

We walked several miles through these mountains, a group of people who have grown together and apart and still together again. I am still figuring out how we mesh. We hold each other close in heart and geography, speaking constantly of times we were warmed by our togetherness. And some of these words turn my heart to ice as I determinedly forget the lies. And some of these words remind me of our differences. And some of them thread fear through our collective walks, as my mind turns all of our past exchanges into a forest of words that scrape just under my skin.

But still, the mountains are filled with light and color. Not all mountains speak in warm, earth tinged tones. Some speak with the voice of light filtering through wind-rippled leaves, lifting heated exchanges with a fresh take on a tired subject. Some words lie refreshing as ice against a warm palm, as I remember why I grew close to these friends. And some follow our separate ways home like echoes on the wind, in phone calls and photographs and plans for another trip.

Mountains, like people, speak like earth and ice, water and tree. None is any less a part of the mountain because I choose to perceive it more than the other, and each is only one part of the long walks we take together.