The mountains stand high, and heavy, and large. They are majestic, yet not enough to impose. They stand alone, two peaks merged together and singing to the world. Not yet grown enough to blot out the sky, they reach high enough to speak of greatness. They begin to see and understand what it means to be great, and with every passing day they strive to reach it. All the while, they reach out, seeking for others who would be great. They seek to help, to test, to try. With stark, rocky faces, they proclaim to the world that theirs is no easy prize. “Come to greater heights!” the mountains cry. And then, as though it is a whisper on the wind, “I dare you to try... Come! Come!” Even the grass fears to grow on such slopes.Yet, atop the mountains, where the sun shines down and sometime breezes gently stir, an oasis peers down upon the valleys. The mountain softens; grass covers the ground in a soft carpet. Rocks become resting places. Trees provide shade, and relief from the jagged lines and harsh edges. Voices seem to sing the glories of the world, the mountain, the day. The edges of paradise just reach over the mountain tops, beckoning to those below. “The climb may be hard, but the reward...,” it seems to say, promising joy to all who hazard the dangers below.
A few hardy trees, one here and one there, emerge from the richness above and march down the mountainside, gathering in clusters where they have overcome the rocky landscape. Down and down they go, gathering momentum and energy and strength and numbers. Eventually, the rocks give way and the trees begin to dominate. They clothe the mountain's foot and overtake the valley. The trees give shelter and strength to grasses and shrubs below, until the whole world seems to be green and growing. They march ever forward, covering the ground until the Earth itself seems a dark carpet of leaves, and branches, and growth, and life.
A cliff falls before them, almost sheer rock, sharp and angular. It is the last of the mountain, falling away. But the trees hold sway, now. They jump or climb or crawl down the cliff with fearless abandon, confidently marching forward. Their very presence etches away the stone, threatening the mountain at its roots. Those in the forefront march on, the mountain behind forgotten, as they tread new ground. With every step they sow destruction, stability, death, and life. Their roots plunge deep into the ground, scratching the surface of the roots the mountain has been growing for centuries. They suck the life out of the ground below, and it blooms and flowers in the world above. The mountain sees, and knows, and understands, and smiles. It has seen their like before.
The wind is still, today, in this struggle of life. Movement abounds, but no breeze stirs the leaves. No current of air whispers. It lies in wait, watching, dozing in the summer air. Today is not a day for play. Today belongs to the mountain.
The clouds above the mountain drift by, aggressive for being so few, searching fiercely for others of their kind. Their movements are slow, deliberate. They see the struggle below and know they will return, someday, to join the fray. But not today. Not today.
All the while, the sun above shines brightly, watching over his little world. In other places, he beats down with the relentless fervor of an angry god. But here, over this little mountain and this little valley, he smiles indulgently. They play such games, these children. They think themselves serious, and of meaning. They could not understand, even if he tried to tell them, that each pebble, each leaf means as much as an entire universe. No more than they could understand that each one means absolutely nothing. He had seen mountains and trees, and valleys, and clouds, and while neither the first nor the last, these are good, while they are still here.
The light brought down by the sun is pure, bright, untainted. It shines forth with the desire to bathe everything in beauty, and thus make beauty itself. It reaches the sky and becomes a brilliant, crystal blue. It touches the clouds, and the clouds become white, a pale reflection of the light itself. The oasis atop the mountain shows pale greens, accented by the deeper shades of trees. Clouds above mar the light, impede its path, and create darker patches in the grass. As the sun's rays fall ever farther, down onto the mountain face, the mountain reflects its inner soul. It is grey, tan, striped, ever changing. The trees attempt to cover the mountain's glory with patches of deep green, dark and vibrant. As they gather in strength, changing the landscape, so too do they change its color. The very light that glorifies them changes as it shines on the leaves and filters down through them. Though the hue is deep, rich, almost mysterious, the valley glows in the bath from the sun. Yet, under the cliff, the light is impeded once more. Below the cliff's face, and out of the mountain's shadow, where life teems thickest, the light seems to falter. Colors are still rich, still dark; they no longer glow. Light is eaten up. It is swallowed by those that cannot shine it back. The trees march ever forward, bringing more life, going where light cannot shine, taking strength from below, stealing it from above, and somehow inviting others to come.
To enter into the trees is to follow their path, to follow the light. It is to begin in the dark, to tread through the dark, through the life, and back. It is to go back to the beginning, back to the mountain, where the path is hardest, where the light shines bright and fierce, to reach toward great heights, to find the oasis, to reach for light itself.
Wow. I like.
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