Returning home from the top edge of the world, filled with wonder about what happens next. Where do you go from the precipice? Farther up, I presume, if you can fly, which I often do in my dreams. Perhaps there is the symbolism.
Mountain living is so reminiscent of the past, so close to my rawest surfaces. There is something about being 9,000+ feet above sea level and blanketed in copious amounts of snow most of the year; John Denver wrote Rocky Mountain High, didn't he? Always there is this feeling of falling off the emotional, as well as, physical reality. Coupled with the snow, one better have a damn good reason for returning to the frozen tundra that is my preferred part of Colorado.
Are you that reason?
The One must know this: I truly love the desert, it is good for my bones, for my soul, for us.
Las lomas, la luna, La Loba, call me, ache for me to return when I'm gone. I can hear the "Taos Hum" from far away, feel the pulsating amethyst crystals believed to be harbored safely under the Big Mountain. La Loba seeks the bones of the past so that she can mend the future. She is found freely roaming the Mesa sage. She has been looking for me.
"He climbed cathedral mountains, he saw silver clouds below,
he saw everything as far as you can see.
And they say that he got crazy once and he tried to touch the sun,
and he lost a friend, but kept the memory.
Now he walks in quiet solitude, the forest and the streams, seeking grace in every step he takes.
His sight is turned inside himself, to try and understand
the serenity of a clear blue mountain lake." ~ John Denver