In the Shadow of the Mountain
It was the mountain that lured me there. It’s towering peaks. Their shadows painted on green foothills. Against the baby blue, cloud speckled sky it looked like a vision of Mount Olympus. It called me to dream of new possibilities. To live in the presence of the gods. A reality outside my comfort zone but felt like exactly where I was meant to be. The greenness of the hills echoed the promise of spring. It was early March and I imagined those hills filled with an abundance of four-leaf clovers and all the luck in the world. It seemed almost necessary to move there. I paid no attention to its name. Diablo. Perhaps an echoing of the trade required to get there. Though it would not be my soul, there was a freedom lost that would become so apparent, so consuming, that the same irresistible urge that brought me there would eventually cause me to leave. At the time though, it all still remained a fantasy.
It’s strange how slow time feels in the present. It’s only in the future, that we look back and realize what a fleeting moment it all is. Yet we still find ourselves racing. Hastening towards the future, only to arrive disappointed and wondering “what happened?” And it’s in that moment of uneasiness that the yearning begins to grow. The desire to run again. The realization that it’s time to go.
It first started when I began to venture out on my own into the foothills. The meandering trails, the ground loosening under my feet. A reminder that even on the constant of the mountain, change was possible. But was it possible for me? I looked out over the valley and to the ridge that obstructed my view of the ocean. I envisioned the waves. The undertow that sunk its wet sandy claws into me years ago. It was like the taste of candy for the first time. Nothing tastes quite as good once you’ve nibbled on something so sweet.
Yet I somehow allowed myself to be pulled again. This time up against a mountain? What was it that really brought me here? A homing device I failed to discover and toss in the waves. Regardless of the reason, here I am. Trapped once again. This time not on an island, but in foothills. The foothills of a mountain that continued to call to me. Daring me to climb. Yet during each attempt, the scorching summer sun would arrive, draining any promise of life around me and I would again descend into the mediocrity of the foothills.
And then one day it all turned dark. The sky resembled the aftermath of a reckoning, as if the mountain was mocking me. Diablo himself releasing his smokey laughter, stale with the smell of all that’s already been lost to his sorcery. My eyes grew watery, trying to soothe the burn caused by the noxious air. And then as if my own tears were a lense, I began to see clearly. Oh, you cunning Devil with your frightening tricks. I now see past your smokey shroud. The path around your base is clear. I no longer feel the need to tackle your taunting summit. Like your serpent fellow, I shall snake around.
