A Mountain’s Manifesto

I am currently sitting at my parents’ dining room table in Las Vegas, staring at a mountain through their bay window. Between me and the mountain is the bay window, a yard of rocks, a white fence, a row of houses, a patch of desert, and no doubt a teenager in a booth who is more concerned with filtering the acne out of his Instagram selfie than the millions of years of beauty surrounding him, demanding your money to drive up and see said mountain.

But the mountain, either unaware or unfazed by the fact that it’s being domesticated by day hikers in Skechers and blue jeans, still holds itself with dignity. Its face, open and welcoming, receives the desert sun gladly, allowing the rays to illuminate the scars etched on its pate; evidence of its unwavering commitment to timelessness amid thousands of years of change.

This stillness, this unwavering resolve, is what gives mountains their majesty. Why songs are sung about them and Gods were made of them. They do not squirm in discomfort, they are impervious to that universal itch to run away from the hand one has been dealt. Their soul is found in the wisdom of their roots. Neither rain nor snow nor hail nor sleet nor selfie sticks nor the thinning of our ozone will cause them to leave their post. Until they fall into the sea or the earth opens up and swallows them, they will stand their ground, face to the sun, their stillness both a stance and a refuge against the all too familiar chaos that is our universe.

This is purpose.

This is purpose.

This is purpose.