|Posted on February 19, 2016 at 3:40 PM|
I traveled without knowing it was by my side and suddenly, poof, like a white rabbit pulled from the black hat of winter, there it was. It must be magic. The Ziggurat of Ur transported to this foreign place and standing like stacked wedding cakes, frosted white, atop the pinnacle.
The asphalt passed under my vehicle and became wooden wheels on a wagon, then the hooves of a strong horse as my thoughts took me back to the time before yellow lines, painted houses, stop lights and intersecting roads. In that time the mountain still surprised travelers, its presence obstructed by density of forest. Old. Older than my reach of known history, older than the stories I can imagine to tell, this mountain rises up through the land absent humans and stands with creatures wild and running. It waxes upon approach and as history increases in stories, so does the summit seem to magnify. In a car, not a camel, I am observing an edifice of no mortal making. Not a pyramid to evoke awe at the advancements of the ancients but a monolith offering silent, snowcapped tribute to a maker whose hand surpasses time, surprises understanding and eludes grasp. Tectonic geomorphology and volcanology aside, the fire of this majestic uprise is not extinguished,only waiting.
Yes, it must be a certain magic.
And then I came home and looked up Mt. Rainier. The First Nation inhabitants said the mountain was Magic. They called it Tahoma. And the tales, myths and legends of the power and reach of that mountain were jaw dropping. I loved that in the midst of my European ancestry and the rush of a modern highway, the Magic, the ancient power once known as Tahoma, still could be heard by this traveller.
You? Try taking a new road home.
mary anne radmacher