my mountains: my home

I don't know what my obsession with a home is lately. Things have been so foggy lately, and I keep bumping into metaphorical shapes in this density. Every time one thing gets settled, another is lost. I suppose this is just how it goes, but I'm almost desperate for something solid. I feel like I'm missing a place that I can feel completely at ease and removed from the outside world, and I need this to counteract the burning of all candles on all ends. It's what I do. I don't understand how to live any other way: I've tried, but with little success. I'll rest when I'm dead I guess.

When I'm bumping around into shapes in the fog, I can always tell when I run into the mountains. They're too big to mistake for anything else, and it's comforting to have a boundary.

The mountains make me feel small and remind me how unimportant a lot of the things I worry about are. On the reverse, the mountains also make me think of the little things that do matter. It only takes one small pebble to start a rock slide, or one little shift in ground to cause an avalanche. It's a reminder that one act on my part (good or bad) could have a much greater impact than anticipated on anyone in the vicinity of the action.

One of my favorite spots in the Flatirons overlooking Boulder

I never get tired of looking at the mountains. They're like a moving stream, always changing, but always the same. That consistency reminds me to breathe. In our busy lives, it's easy to forget to open your eyes and enjoy life. I know I race around all week and then spend the weekend recovering. One of my goals for next year (starting now) is to take time out to enjoy life a little more. I do love my busy life, but I often forget to enjoy my surroundings, my friends, my mountains. 

Any time I leave this state and my mountains, I itch to return. When I drive home, west towards the mountains, I can breathe out and feel as though I have a place that is mine, where I fit in. It's inexplicable, but somehow there is a contented sigh that runs through me when I take the time to lift my head and stare out into the mountains. Perhaps it has something to do with the people I've met here, how I've grown here, and what I've become. But it feels as if it all has to do with this thin air and towering rocks I know are there, regardless of whether or not I can see them. It's the same feeling of knowing your closest friends are there for you, no matter what.

The mountains remind me of this, my wonderful family and friends, both here and there.

<3

I see my mountains, and I know I'm home.