A Little From the Abstract: My Place on the Mountain

I have this vision.
Wanna See?
I have this idea in mind of me at a place that I have always dreamed about. I am up on a hill, which is not unfamiliar to me. This hill comes with its own history. This is part dream and part recollection. This place comes from a time where I partly failed and partly succeeded. A piece of me died here and yet, a part of me was reborn here.

I will do my best to describe this place. In fairness, I will do what I can to offer as many details so that you can see what I see—but still, I understand the mind’s dilemma. I understand the bias of our perception. I understand that interpretation may vary, which is why I will do my best; however, if my trick works, I doubt that our pictures need to be similar at all. Instead, if this works, I think we can pull together with a new version of understanding and still—you will see what you see and I may see differently, but hopefully, by the end of this, you and I will see something together. And together, we can call this Peace.

As I do with many other descriptions, for this one; I think it would be best to allow yourself to clear your thoughts (if possible). Think about farmland in the mountains of upstate New York. Think about long roads through small quiet towns—picture the kind of towns where you’d swear that no one really lives there, but the towns are small and exceptionally real. This is so real that you try to envision what the town’s people would look like and wonder how they dressed. Think about a little town with old homes that date back to colonial times. Think about an old railroad track that is no longer in use and a bridge that runs over a river below. The waters move and trout swim and some of the locals wade in the waters to try their luck with fly-fishing.

The trees are green and the sky is blue. The surrounding mountains are tree-covered and above, long-winged birds, like black symbols—almost like hieroglyphics, scan the world and turn and hang in the sky; motionless, as if the wind that moves through them allows their wings to glide and drift like a fixture in the heavens.

I’d like you to think about the long country roads with pastures on either side. Picture some cows and some old barns. I want you to think about a long road where dashed line separates between the traffic. The pavement is the color of light gray and the lines are white. At best, the traffic is scattered to non-existent but mainly, the roads are quiet and less traveled.

Think of a sign on the side of the road to indicate the upcoming farm. Think of a right turn that heads off to a dirt road. Think of the dirt road as it begins to turn to the left. The dirt road is not smooth by any means.
To either side are pastures. There are some cows on the left hand side. Most of them are brown and white. They roam about in a small field that is surrounded by wooden fencing. They are happy or so it seems. They are gathered together, like family, and of course, their moos can be heard across the land.

Imagine this road comes to a right turn and then we begin to climb uphill, which is not too steep but yet, this is the terrain of these parts. We are in the middle of mountains that have been around for longer than we could possibly imagine. There is a small house off to the left now. No one is home, but yet, we know that people live there. There is proof of children that live in this home because there are a few toys on the grass.

This is the country . . .

As we head up the hill, we come to the top and see a look ahead, which is a series of mountains that stretch far in the distance. Their bodies weave together like fingers, interwoven at the knuckles; as if to be clasped together.  To the right is a field, which is like something out of a dream to me. This is open land with no specific use; it’s just land with no other purpose than to be what it is to me. There is a tree at the top of this hill, which is where I see myself. You are welcome to join me here, if you’d like. Ahead are the big red barn and the farmhouse and the bunks where the farmhands live. And namely me; this is where I lived at one point in my life. I was much younger. Everyone was still alive back then. I was still growing. I was still hopeful and yet, I was still worried about my life ahead of me.

I am sharing this with you because this place has a spiritual value to me. This place is as real as the letters in this document. This place is as real as the vision in your mind. This place is a piece of me. But more, this place has always been my safe haven when times are tough.

The tree at the top of the hill has limbs that are not like any other. the tree is not tall but yet, the tree is old and meaningful. To me, the tree is the manifestation of Mother Earth, comforting and warn, gentle as ever, and welcoming to her children who are in need of coming home. The grass is tall and yet, the field will soon change colors when the autumn months come in.

Envision the grass, like tall blades, tipped with wheat–like thistles that will eventually be cut to serve the barnyard animals in bales of hay. There is a breeze here. There always has been a breeze here. I’d like you to envision this as clearly as possible—and see the gentle winds as the breath of The Almighty Mother, or Mother Earth, the Magna Mater, Goddess, and greatness of life, like Cybele, a mother goddess of Phrygia and Asia Minor, identified by the Greeks with Rhea and by the Romans with Ops.

Perhaps I overstate my description but to be accurate, I need to display the spiritual nature in order for me to define my connection with this place. I am high enough to see my surroundings. I am not higher than the mountains around me, but yet, I am high enough to see the different inclines and declines of mountains ahead of me. I am in clear view to see the different variations of colors in the trees, and yet; most importantly, I am far enough and away from the world. I am at a place where my old self was fine to die and a new me was bound to live.

Again, I was reborn here; only, not religiously or by any godly means that goes with the description of rebirth. I was not reborn in faith or washed by the beliefs of the Holy Resurrection. No. This place has a different meaning to me. This is where I shed my skin. This is where I saw the loss of my Father and where I ran for comfort when I wept and felt beaten. This is where I was healed from my past and where I was stripped of my rage. I was taken out of my elements and given a new focus. I was offered a new way of living that comes without the common medications that the world will often consume. This is more than a place of my recovery. This is more than more because this is the embodiment of me and the me, which someday, I hope to be.

I go here in my thoughts, atop the hill, and I find myself with my eyes closed. I can breathe here, honestly, easily and freely. (Can you see this?) This is my temple. This is my sanctuary. This is me under the roof of the greatest cathedral of all. I am distant and safe and away from all the mixtures of people and persuasions. I am no longer involved in any of the arguments or the hatred. I am free here because if any place was ever designed for confession; this is where I’d come to confess for being me. I could tell my thoughts here. I could leave my secrets. I could tell the wind what was in my heart and spew the pain because, of course, She is Mother and gratefully, Mother always knows best.

She is welcoming and waiting and she is never doubtful or judgmental. She does not check the time or how often we speak because she is timeless. And besides, She knows me.
Do you see what I mean?
I am at home here.
I am me before anything else and there is no need to pretend to be anyone else. There is no need to defend myself. There is no reason to complain or explain. There is nothing else but the warmth of my surroundings and the love of Mother Earth. She is the dove with the olive branch and a symbol of what I hope to be, which is at peace, which is tranquil, which is free from distraction, commotion, disturbance, pandemonium or the upheavals of commotion.

We are entering into the autumn months now. I can say that I have never seen foliage as beautiful as I have from my place on the hill. And I am here now, which is nowhere near the physical representation of the hill. I am not sure what’s to come for me, yet, I am positive that change is underway. I am afraid and yet, I am more settled now because I have taken this trip.

I am grown, which is not to say that I do not experience childlike fears or preform childlike actions. I have my worries. I have my insecurities that tend to distract me. I suppose this is why I need the hill. I need some help from the Almighty Mother. I need guidance but more, I need love for the hand and peace for my heart. I need to know which direction to go and when to start.

I suppose the symbolism here is from a time when I was most broken and yet somehow, in the end; I was healed. This is why I come here. I come here because isn’t this what everybody wants? To heal, to recover, to laugh or cry, or to restore ourselves to youth—so we can smile again; safely, like children do.

Here comes the fall.
And not a minute too soon.
(You know?)

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