On days like this, with the rarity of a complete cover of snowfall, it’s hard to think of leaving Burnt Mountain Farm.
The snow nestles down into the leaves and reveals the bones of the mountains, near and far. I can see all the blue ridges. The stillness allows an even deeper seeing, into the age old softness of these elderly, dignified hills, where the trees waited for me to return so many years ago. When I came back and found them, we had a silent reunion party that lasted two years.
Two years of meditative, communal quiet among the green and taupe mountains, with the voices of bobwhites and redtails, squirrels and foxes, and the things that go bump in the night. The nourishing aromas of leaf rot, horse manure, mountain streams and deer scat.
Then I got on with the life of a modern person. The mountain and my home were always here to soothe and pacify.
Today’s chilly serenity foreshadows the loss I’m going to feel somewhere down the road. When I awaken to balmy air and the sound of the sea. I’ve always wanted that. When I get out of bed and have my coffee sitting among tropical flowers, I will be happy deep in my warm bones. But there will be a sense of loss as well. I will miss the aromatic stillness of my mountain home.