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the four sisters, last week in the blue ridge mountains
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The four of us did so much growing up in these hills, some of our best living yet. The humble and wise blue ridge, shaded under layers of fog, never giving it all away.
Yes, I am partial, biased in the highest degree. But there is something about this place. These mountains are not young and pretentious. No, they shroud their faces, appearing only when they please. Or, only for those who approach with awe and respect.
They hold the clouds in their ridges, deepening and darkening as the expanse draws away from your eyes. They are the aged and beautiful, the quiet and the wooded.
There is no competition here, there are no wrathful avalanches or desert heats. Just the verdant life that smells of oak trees and October.
These hills may have nothing to prove, but if you enter with grace and vulnerability, they will bend their great arms down, hold your chest close, and set your heart beating again.
These hills are the silent incarnations of omniscience and omnipotence. They shelter and they inspire, yet their years have made them humble. They have no need for false pride, self-aggrandizement. They watch and they heal.
These are the hills I’ve grown into. These are the hills I will find my home in forever. These are the mountains I love, even if they don’t love me. I admire their vastness, but I give deference to their power. And they will always give me life, and they will always give me something to live for.
