When I rise in the mountains, I turn from wallflower to wildflower, from opaque cloud to sunbeam shower, from a jar of jam that's almost gone to the sound of a strawberry jam lid when it's opened. I become less empty, more enhanced. Less cotton, more skin. Less I wish, more I am. It is here where I rise like a mountain myself until only the wind and pine groves remain.
How brave, how heavenly, as the pin-shaped leaves blow across Lake Minnewanka. I could have stayed in town and listened to the footsteps, instead I rolled to where the sun brews the most forgiving air. Nobody else was around at first, just my mum and I. We stood at the jagged edge and heard the wings of birds in the blue sky above us. We kept our distance as a herd of big horn sheep meandered by. It was all too pleasant with the mountains as our backdrop until a school bus of loud tourists pulled in. I came to the mountains to run from the noise, and here I was, suddenly surrounded by the kind of people who feed wild animals and yell when they should whisper. I looked at them with scowling eyes, but nothing in me could stop them from startling the sheep and putting shadows where sunshine ought to be. How is it that even in the most forgiving parts of the world, all it takes is one selfish person to shrink the mountain's size?
They eventually left and we were once again humming in mountain time. We stayed for three days, two nights, ate as much as we laughed, and found in ourselves an endless desire to return again. That is what they do to you, like a reaching grasp from a loved one's hand, these mountains are my home.
outfit details: Free People sweater, skirt & socks, Montana lace up boots