When the plane banked, I spotted the
snow-capped Wasatch Range out my window. My eyes misted.
Usually when I travel, I catch planes
in Salt Lake City, which is four hours from my home, to save money
on fares. And when I return and glimpse the mountains, my heart does
a flip.
My recent trip took me to Montreal to
see my son, daughter-in-law, and infant granddaughter. Their
neighborhood has pleasing stone and brick apartments on quiet
streets. It's an easy walk to a large park, to fruit and vegetable
markets, and bakeries that sell unimaginably good bread. My son and
daughter-in-law are great cooks, and they have interesting and hospitable
friends. The baby was hard to leave. Still, when the
Rocky Mountains came into view, right where I'd left them, I had a
familiar feeling of belonging.
What constitutes home geographically
can be ocean, prairie, corn fields, bustling urban neighborhood, or
quiet suburb. But those of us who grew up with the grandeur of
mountains, with their wildlife, boiling rivers, and eagles circling
on thermals, developed a deep connection to them.
For us, it is natural to go to the
mountains when we are seeking deeper understanding. The
mountains can help us come home to our selves.
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