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You Can Find Awe Where the Words Run Out
A tale of magic mirrors and Ulysses in Hell
This is where the words run out
Between white-crowned mountains striped with shadows and furred by forests, on the slow-breathing skin of an ancient lake. The reflective water turns the mountains upside down. The sun becomes a bright bar of gold that points at everyone who looks at it.
This lake refuses to freeze. January be damned. Even as winter turns the waterfalls that feed it into glittering ribbons of ice.
These mountains have no names and no masters. They know that to name a thing is to try to control it. And all of this — sun, lake, mountains, trees — will be here after every one of us vanishes into the night. Still reflecting the hollow sky. A magic mirror that steams at its edges, reaching up toward the sun.
I didn’t know it had a name
Before leaving the house this morning, I read this piece on awe walks by David Majister. I know about awe. I seek it like a bloodhound, chasing it into rocky clefts until it’s forced to turn at bay and bare its teeth at me.
But I didn’t know they call it an awe walk. And I didn’t know that after going on one, people take selfies less focused on themselves, capturing more…
