The ^M^o^u^n^t^a^i^n^s

The mountains in my little town are snowcapped right now. They make this smoggy, old Los Angeles suburb feel almost like a mountain town sitting in thin air surrounded by brilliant blue skies. They've got me pausing at every window, drooling as I step into the sun and look up. Because the mountains point up. They never fail to remind. They never fail to remind that they have a hard job, thus their peaks are undisturbed and their lakes are serene; their enemies are many and their companions few. But oh, how these mountains have been masked by the seasons of smog -- just a contented haze that makes life in these valleys small and comfortable. Small and comfortable. Two features I admired at first glance. A lot of folks seem more than happy here. Establishing such greatness for themselves. Oh to be, 30 and poised, confident, satisfied, and qualified, and well on my way to my own greatness. I look around and people make it look so easy. Greatness. So attainable. But the mountains tell me different. They stand strong through the ages, they endure every storm, it's never easy, but they still point up. Up through the smog, the smoke, the thin mountain air, and sunny blue skies, they never tire nor forget whose battle they stand for, nor that they stand as our compass -- always directing us upward. Oh to be like the mountains, deteriorating but still praising, worn but strong, forsaken but willing, persecuted but protecting.

I look to the mountains and there I see where my help comes from.