the mountain with a heart

THE MOUNTAIN WITH A HEART

INTRODUCTION

So long ago, and perhaps yet to be,
there was a mountain for all who would see,
It was not big and it was not tall,
But it was so green that it out shone them all
With yellows, and reds and bright blues here and there
And mist from the waterfall dancing on air
but not just by chance, did vitality grow,
Its strength, don’t you see, flowed up from below
and those in the know, who played their right part,
could feel the soft pulse of the mountain’s great heart.

So how do you describe a place that still shows the fingerprints of its creator. A pristine mountain covered on three sides with trees, and a beautiful valley cradled between two ridges that extend out, like graceful open arms, onto the plains below. The mountain and its valley are bathed in green, from the occasional trees and grasses. And the valley is punctuated with bursts of color from the flowers that rotated their abundance according to the season.

And the sounds, the sounds of nature are everywhere; in the rush of water, in the rustle of wind, in the songs of a thousand birds, in the grasshopper’s clapping wings, the chirping of the crickets and green tree frogs, and all of the other soft sounds that come from we know not where. These sounds fill the air, and it is all in harmony.

A crystal clear spring wells from a soft spot near the top of our mountain. It trickles through a small glade and slowly swelling its banks, winds its way through the valley. Only twice does it pause, and each time forms a pool of reflection, then continues its slow descent onto the plains where it becomes part of a great river.

As if to punctuate our mountain with reverence, the lakes and the streams mimic the blue from the sky, and when the sun shines at just the right angle, it reflects a spray of light upward and forms a gentle wreath of light that hovers around the crest.

In the distance are much larger mountains, not nearly so green, and their summits are also encircled, but not with a wreath of light, but with a thin gray haze that extends out from these mountains, over the plains, beyond the great river and on to the horizon. Underneath all of this haze is a hustle and bustle of people racing and pacing down too crowded streets. Boats and floats litter the river, and a thin oily slick smothers the water which had once been crystal clear.

And there is the noise: noise of the streets from engines and horns and wheels, and noise of factories from machines grinding and bells ringing and whistles blowing, and noise from the clanging and banging of putting up and tearing down and putting up again. Noise fills the air, and crowds out nature’s songs, and there is no harmony. It is a gray, frantic, thoughtless, noisy, civilization. And this was not right: mountains should seem alive, valleys should seem peaceful, rivers and streams should sparkle, and people--people need to be aware.

When The Creator looked down, over the shoulder of the sun, at the gray mountains, he sighed and bowed his head, and his eyes welled with tears. But then he looked at the Mountain with a Heart, he nodded his head, and he smiled.