My deepest desire?

To feel the rock beneath my feet. To allow the magnificent depth of the mountain to infuse my body, like last winter’s snow, pushing deep into the soil to gently soak the thirsty roots of ancient fir, water rising like sap, released into air, cooling the breeze.

The mountain, a repository of mysteries, its vaults of mineral histories, its secret rivers, the network of fine organic strands through the soil through which information flows generously.

If I could feel the rock beneath my feet, if I could allow such wisdom to resonate in the tightly sprung fibres of hamstring and thigh, if I could relax the hands that daily grip the rock face so intently they remain tensed, even in sleep… maybe then…

Always, I am climbing. Always, I am pushing ahead. Always I am stretching, ever higher, never resting. In sleep I dream of summits yet to be conquered. 

Maybe one day I will stop on the edge of this patient mountain, and in standing still I will be heir to its life-giving wisdom.