Smatterings

I've been thinking about Mt. Rubidoux again.

The little mountain my Dad used to run up 3 times a week. The little mountain and its peppery base that gave me space and time to figure out how to leave my marriage. The tears and the perching and Townes Van Zandt.... And now, the desire to return.

My Mom is in the hospital and I am totally helpless. All I can think to do is to stretch my legs out over the spiked incline, on little feet that look like hers. With even this minor exertion I am forced to breathe, to unlock the tightness of anxiety in my chest and back. On this little mountain I can consider how I will let everything crash down around me and still press on. This motion has become endemic to me, structures the way my body occupies space, provides a rhythym that keeps me sane.

And the mountain hums of him. Perhaps this is why I go there, too, for respite; a fitting place for expressions of grief and longing and diminishing returns.