The Mist on the Mountain

If I believed in God, I would have felt her with me that day.

Standing alone in a mist so thick that I could see only several dozen yards ahead.  I knew this mountain well so as I stood on the ridge, I could see in my mind’s eye the valley below and the peaks that ringed me- now all blocked by the liquid clouds enveloping me.  A mist so thick that it created a silence beyond silence.

I struggle to find the words to describe what I felt in that place.  A bit fearful at first- it was a little foolhardy to be up there- but soon I felt safe- but more than that.  I felt a sense of absolute security.  Nothing like fear remained.  My busy mind stopped.  I was just there.

Peace is a word I use a lot.  That day, in that place, peace came to me like nobody’s business.  Simple, undiluted.  Filling me like the mist that filled up the canyons beneath me.

In what some would call my regular life, in my ordinary places, I often feel as though I am walking along the edge of a cliff.  The chasm of regret and self-judgment always right there, just waiting for me to slip.  In such moments, I try to recall that time when I stood on the edge of a real cliff, alone in the dense mist.  I think of the peace I felt there.

I now understand that what I felt on that mountain didn’t depend on where I was, or the mist, or anything else outside me.  It depended on only one thing.  I needed only to be strong, open, and ready.

So that precious peace, that exquisite sanctuary, I found that day on the mountain is always there for us.  Wherever we are.  It’s always there.