Monday, May 20, 2013


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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