Copyright 2010 Roberta Osborn. All rights reserved.

Dreams of the Borderland

Durability

I have walked all morning into the mountains. I have worked long and hard to get here, where the

real climb is just beginning. I take the switchbacks that wind back and forth across the hill like a

ribbon. Even this is rugged, and I endure the effort by taking smaller steps, content with any

upward progress. Eventually, I no longer cast a shadow on the trail, just on my dusty feet. The

sun is high overhead, and the trail has run out into a clearing. Here the veil of trees and grass just

barely conceals the rocky nature of the place. I climb on for a long time, continuing upward until it

seems appropriate to stop and take a look around.

There is a giant pink

rock emerging from

the grass on the

hillside. I walk around

it, trying to understand

how it got here, but I

come up with no

theories. It is mostly

round, although here

and there a flat

surface emerges,

hinting at the crystal

planes within. There

are variations in color,

washes of a deeper

rose visible in its

crevices. I study these

lines in the rock as though they formed words in an ancient script. I think about the length of time

that this rock has been on the earth, the forces that created and shaped it, its destiny, some eons

hence, scattered and glistening in the tide as tiny oval pebbles on a beach far downstream.

I decide to dig around it with my pick and see if I can free it from the turf. There is more rock

below. I dig and dig, but I do not find an edge. I dig further all around. All I can do is lay away the

sod from the solid surface beneath. Moist little earthworms wriggle on the turned over turf, intent

on returning to the earth. I make orderly test patterns radiating from the rock. I find nothing loose,

no edge to wedge a pick into. I realize that this beautiful rock is the tip of a boulder so large it may

well be the mountain itself. I climb back up the hill. The rock is a perfect place to sit, so, giving up,

I lay the grass back into place and have a seat, my legs dangling over the edge. The mountains

roll out in all directions. For a long time I rest there, gazing to the sky as it shades from perfect

blue to barest yellow at the haze of the horizon. The sun is gentle and warm.

I occurs to me that I could climb all these hills, try the view from every peak, but then, my

perspective still would be "more hills to climb." I prefer to think of each of these mountains as

extending from the heart of the same earth. I have climbed one and perhaps I have climbed them

all.

It is afternoon, and I ask if I should go back, now, back to the trail head, to head home. The little

voice that answers me before I finish phrasing my question is never wrong, but often I err in not

asking, and often I err in hearing my own voice instead. The real answer is always instantaneous

and can always be distinguished by its complete tenderness. It bears the quiet ring of truth, and

has no agenda. Sometimes it says "yes." Sometimes it says "no." Sometimes it says "why not?"

Sometimes it says "peace." Now it says "sure." That voice is my soul's mountain reminding me of

where my bedrock is. I pack up my kit and begin the long walk down the hill in short steep steps,

certain of my destination.