At the beginning of each school day when my soul cringes from the onslaught of gloomy faces and screaming commands, I stand in the central courtyard and look to the mountains as my model for the day.
I look to the mountains and lift my chest as I breathe in; I look to the mountains and maintain my strength as I exhale. “Yoga off the mat” as we say, I look to the mountains and recall the strength I have within my own soul. I see with my third eye as I close my physical eyes and will the sound of silence to swell in my consciousness as breath swells in my chest.
These mountains have endured more harshness than I can ever know. They have fed and clothed, sheltered and nourished the people who settled in their foothills. These mountains have inhaled the morning sun and kissed the midnight moon routinely since before the footprint of man ever touched their surface.
These mountains were once covered with lush greenery, sliced with veins of running water that cut through the rock, making passionate pulsations of gushing rivers from tips to toes.
They stood tall even as the rivers dried up and vegetation died.
They stood tall in the baking suns;
they stood tall in destructing winds;
they stood tall.
Still today, they stand.
Jagged and rough, evidence of life elusive, these mountains stand tall.
They stand, and so do I.