Mountains are giant, restful, absorbent. You can heave your spirit into a mountain and the mountain will keep it, folded, and not throw it back as some creeks will. The creeks are the world with all its stimulus and beauty; I live there. But the mountains are home.
-Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
These are the days of cool breezes and trees on fire. These are the days of wet grass in the morning and hot tea in the evening. These are the days of sweaters wrapped around shoulders and eyes turned westward. These are the days I long to get back to my mountains. To my soul. To my home.
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5 comments:
Amen, sister.
It's always this time of year that you make me feel dreadfully homesick.
Trees on fire indeed. That's the part I miss most. And the mountains.
Lovely. And Annie Dillard! I've been thinking of re-reading Pilgrim for a while now.
Nice.
Come home, then. We all could sit down for hot tea. And to think, Elizabeth is here, too. :-)
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