Notes on Moving Mountains
As I was driving through Pisgah National Forest in Western North Carolina,
I thought about how some people claim to have never seen the mountains move –
“Impossible!”, they would declare. They prefer the ocean, thinking these blue
hills are rooted, stagnant and still. They have never seen tides of sunlight and
shadows flow over the mountains – ribbons
of light that reflect the seasons and bright colors of the changing leaves.
Light that reveals the silver bones of trees in the winter, new leaf green in
spring, deep colors of sapphire and turquoise in summer and gold beyond compare
in the Fall. They haven’t imagined moonlight over the mountains, illuminating
the feminine curves of these hills silhouetted against the night sky. They
haven’t heard the wind move down a mountain, first a whisper - you raise
your head to listen, wondering what that soft sound is - then a howl, blowing
your hair back and bringing with it the smell of wet ferns, damp leaves and
mystery. They have not witnessed the waves of clouds moving through the river
valleys, white against blue, soft and flowing.
The Blue Ridge Mountains are among the oldest mountains in the world. And among rivers, the French Broad River is the third oldest in the world, with the New River in North Carolina and the Nile being the oldest. There is something special about these old mountains - a deep spirituality that has brought people from all over the world to live here.
What brought me to this place, I believe, is what is represented in these
ancient mountains. On the surface, they are moving, changing, sparkling,
growing… yet deep beneath, they are rooted in the earth, old, solid and,
somehow, wise. This is a nice place to be…balanced between the earth and the
air, yet with the security that beauty is always beneath you, above you, within
you. I am riding the waves of the Blue Ridge Mountains.