The fog-laden green soaked mountains are calling to me. I do not hear the waves of the sea or the sea gulls, like some do. But I hear the sing-song of happy birds flitting among the dense forest of the Blue Ridge Mountains. I see the gentle, ancient mountains, wind-swept and softened with age and wear.
I look upon the mountains as if it were the first time. The lapse of a year rekindles the flame of love I have for them. Something mystical about them makes me ache for climbs to the top. Something about them energizes my imagination. Somehow, adventures are held in the palm of the daily hand. With what is given, the beauty of nature expresses itself so easily.
This is where I pay attention better. This is where, among the aged trees and the chilled waterfalls, I feel God's presence and so much of my own past. Here on these mountains my family has camped and spent many hours hiking the trails from when I was a little girl. Memories mix with a spiritual renewal, and I am filled.
To build upon the past, here we will meet again.
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