I’ll never forget the first time I saw her. Her arms outstretched across the horizon. The sun rose from behind her as if she had held back the night with the strength of her own might. My mountain mama was waking. She turned from a mourning gray to a burst of color, the sun revealing what the lazy morning fog tried to hide as it drowsily beckoned its inhabitants back into warm beds under down comforters as fires burned in their hearths.
The large windows in the upstairs classroom provided an excellent view of her beauty. The change was symbolic of the change that was happening to me, bursting from the gray of mourning into the spectacular color of a full and vibrant life. A confidant woman was emerging from the scared and confused girl, the peaks and valleys carving their indelible mark on my soul.
One can feel God and hear Him most clearly on this mountain and in the river that runs at her feet. I imagine them joyful lovers, His finger carving out the curves and painting the colors, making her as He chooses for Himself. A spirit is full just to be there with them, together.
Some may say that these are not mountains, and it makes little difference to me. I know the familiar fluttering in my stomach as I traverse the ribbon roads cut through her trees, letting me know that I belong here. I could travel the world and come to the conclusion that all art pales in comparison to the Creator’s fall canvas on the lofts of this mountain and the way He manages to dazzle spectators anew with each coming year.
I have two other displaced West Virginian blogger friends who are trying to make their homes elsewhere, and this is for them A. and Tina.