Tumbleweeds

I sat on a big rock and looked out across the foothills toward the snowcapped mountains that rose from the prairie floor. It looked as if I could reach out and touch the tops of the peaks though they were miles away. I was always in awe of the mountains even on the days they were distant and dared anyone to approach. 

A breeze tugged at my hair and awakened me from my trance as the wind blew across the wide-open countryside, tossing tumbleweeds that jumped over clumps of sagebrush. Just beyond, uprooted grasses and weeds of various kinds clung to the barbs of a fence.  As the tumbleweeds reached the barbed wire, they finally found a resting place. As I took in the whole scene, I felt kind of like one of those tumbleweeds that rolled across the prairie.

During my growing up years, we moved from place to place. Living in parsonages with cast off furnishings of members of the congregation was not really a place to call home. However, there was one constant – the town where my grandmother lived. She spent most of her life in the mountains and even after she moved to town, they remained in view and gently spoke her name. It was there in the mountains where my father was born. When he married the girl from the prairies, she went to live with him in his mountain home and it was there that five of their six children were born. Those were their roots, their place to call home. 

I came along later. Though I was small the first time I saw the mountains, it was as if they whispered my name. After each visit, the silent call became louder. I heard it in the wind that whistled through the trees and in the gusts that blew through the valleys. Others before me heard the call, too, and many answered. My great grandmother found refuge there in the mountains that spoke to her. Native Americans heard the call and climbed the mountain peaks in search of wisdom through visions to lead their people. Even now, many who visit there find solace and can feel the sacred reverence.

When I married, we almost moved to the mountains. Instead, we made a vow that one day we would move to the place where the mountains lifted from the prairie floor, the place held sacred to those who had walked among the valleys and peaks and lived in its shadow. 

Yes, there were many places I called home, where we raised our children and spent time with grandchildren. Yet I still heard the voice calling. After many years, the dream I had as a child was within my grasp and now, I see the mountains every day. When my siblings see pictures of the roads that lead into the mountains, they say it looks like the road home. 

Just as those tumbleweeds that found a place of rest in view of the mountains that speak, it is here we found the place we will call home and rest for a time.

“The mountains are calling, and I must go…”    John Muir