Collegiate Peaks

If my soul went to college it would study the art of silence, and the rhythm of breath. Deep in the mountains, among the twist and crunch of sun-burnt pine, my soul would inhabit their scorched broken scent. I would wander about in thin, chill mountain air—-climbing up and over scratchy granite boulders. Seeking nothing. Knowing only that somewhere, high up in these impossible mountains, possibility exists. I would traipse across narrow ridge tops: all focus, all breath. I would shriek and slide down icy damp snowfields—-then clamber back up for more. I would steady my gaze on the falcon as it circles above. I would insist that my body keep moving. I would insist that my fears slip away.

I always knew it would be like this: a woman walking alone into naked clear waters. Trudging along hard-packed trails. Sleeping under the stars. Even before I could speak, I knew—–that cathedrals made me claustrophobic and that hearts rip, among the jagged silence of mountains.

Anne O’Regan
Newton, Massachusetts
June 1, 2009