M is for Mountains

It isn’t too early to start thinking about booking a beach house for the summer. The good ones go fast and each of us has our favorite.

Still, it is no secret in my family that I prefer to unwind in the mountains. I’m not an enthusiastic fan of the beach. I don’t object to the fact that I have to lather myself with sticky, smelly sun block before I venture out into the sun. I can deal with the sand that gets into my ears and between my toes and never washes out of my hair. I don’t complain about sitting under an umbrella, in a patch of shade no more than three feet across, all day long. All. Day. Long. I can do that.

What annoys me is the sound of it. Not the delightful squeals of children at play. Not the muted chatter of friends and family. Not the incessant squawking of the gulls who have every right to complain. No, what bothers me is that there is never a moment of silence there. The surf rolls in, breaks, and rolls out again incessantly…monotonously…perpetually. While most people find this to be soothing, I find it tiresome…

...which is why I prefer to relax in the mountains where silence is broken only by the sound of vast, empty space, the sweep of the wind, sound of an acorn dropping, the rustle of leaves underfoot. Where I can hear myself think…or silence the constant chatter in my head. In the mountains I can walk for miles in the shade of ancient trees and find rest on the banks of a glacial brook. Sink my feet into moss. Inhale the fragrance of wood smoke and wild flowers. Warm myself by a fire. Peacefully. Mindfully. Silently.

Are you a shorebird or a mountain sprite?

“The mountains are calling and I must go.”

--John Muir--

jan