Mountains have appeared as a theme. Challenges lifted themselves in ways that blocked my vision to the other side. A year ago, I left the artist retreat in Maine to settle affairs in Ohio before moving to Thailand. I jotted this unfinished poem down in a travel center parking lot after driving through tunnels carved from the mountains of Pennsylvania:
sometimes it’s easier to
plow right through a
mountain
rather than climb its summit
riding out momentary darkness
with faith of a mustard seed
holding breath
through
claustrophobic comfort
driving deep in
the belly of the beast
then released
from its shadow
birthed and bathed
in light
This wouldn’t have been particularly noteworthy, however, at the time, I had no idea that in the following days, I would be adventuring at Seneca Rocks with my friend, Michelle Black. Wherever we travel, magic dances at our feet. Crows and frogs, Native elder, sand dunes, witch farm.
Mere days before, such heights seemed insurmountable. I wrote of carving a path through the bottom with the mindset that I didn’t have the endurance to climb over or work through my problems. Yet here I was, hiking all the way to a peak. I climbed beyond safety signs and towards the highest piece of rock you can see in the photo above.
Before writing this post, I wanted to make sure I was properly identifying this formation as a mountain to make sure my personal truths were in alignment with geographical statistics. It turns out, at one time the US defined mountains as elevating 1000 feet from the surrounding earth (Seneca Rocks stands 900 feet above the river). But the United States Geological Survey has since determined there is no such technical definition. I was searching to learn how high is a mountain, but I suppose, like any challenge, it lies in the eye of the beholder.
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