On a warm Sunday in May, I attained the enlightenment of the mountains. It is the type of illumination that can only come from being at the precipice of heaven, caught in the thin, transcendent layer of film between God’s creation below and His kingdom above. For my mere mortal self, the sight of the world as I knew it—vast, verdant, and vain—sprawling below me was enough to imbibe me with humility, compelling me to bend my knees in submission. Yet the infinite azure domain above me left me even more enraptured than the petrified crags that reached up into it, clinging to its majesty.
I recline carefully on a lichen-laden rock that, like me, seems to surrender to the raw power of the splendor above and below us. Around me, a sea of like-minded rocks prostrate before the all-encompassing shrine to Gaia—a pilgrimage of rough, slate boulders in robes of chartreuse. Flattened cushions of sage Krummholz, stunted from a lifetime of bowing their heads to escape the fickle wrath of the mountains, snake across the otherwise barren cliffs, undulating in the gentle breeze. As I lay on my cobalt blue backpack, the branches of these deformed trees stretch out over me like the tentacles of furry, green tarantulas. Their prickly, pine hairs rub against my hands in affectionate scratches, like a firm yet motherly embrace. The intoxicating citrusy smell of the leaves fills my nostrils, sedating my aching senses into a state of absolute calm.
I slide my white baseball cap over my forehead, and close my eyes. I no longer need them to see. Benevolent rays of sunshine, like the affectionate kisses of a father so glad to see his prodigal son’s return, caress my rough, unshaven face. A cool, soft breeze glides over me, blowing away the last vestiges of earthly affairs that cling to the corners of my liberated soul.
It is quiet. Not the uneasy, oppressive silence of deafness that starves Man of his sense of being, but a serene stillness free of discordance. I can hear Earth breathing, and feel her chest softly rising and falling with my own. Her heart beats strongly, each pulse radiating vigor and life. In the distance, I think I can hear her children, my brethren, laugh in unison—a merry, harmonious chorus of rustling leaves, singing birds, and soaring winds. What is there to do but join in?
I open my eyes. A loose clump of cotton is stuck to the brim of my hat, and it dances above my eyes, frolicking in the blue abyss that engulfs it. I try to flick it off with a wave of my hand, but in mockery of my vanity, it springs back into the sky, transforming into a wisp of clouds. I squint, rising from my sacred perch, and look around me, frustrated.
Immediately, the consequences of my heresy become clear. The wisps transform into a looming, anvil-shaped behemoth, barreling straight for the sun. The chorus descends into panic and mayhem as my brethren flee the wrath I have brought upon them. They flail and scream, pleading with me, as if to whimper, “What have you done?”
A tsunami of darkness charges right at me. With each passing second, I can see it getting closer and closer. The gentle breeze evolves into a roaring gust, whistling past my ears and blowing my hat into the Krummholz, who are taking cover. In an act of solidarity, they grab ahold of it for me, entangling it deep within themselves so that I may retrieve it once I have served my sentence. I duck, clinging to the rocks around me, and taking cover with them, as the storm cloud blows overhead.
I close my eyes. I do not need to see.