The Lessons I’m Learning from Mountains

Their ascent to the heavens inspires awe, no matter how many times we have observed their glory before. They are iconic visuals in our storytelling, often representing adventure, wisdom, and glory; and they have an unmatched utility in reminding us of our smallness. Throughout human history, we have sought connection to the gods on mountaintops, and it’s no mystery why. They are our ladder to the heavens - the place where earth mingles with cloud. And they have been teaching me some things lately.

“Understanding surface elevation is extraordinarily important because it is the physical representation of the balance between deep-Earth processes, such as mantle convection and plate tectonics, and surface processes, such as erosion, the water cycle and climate.” - Hari Mix, graduate student at Stanford School of Earth, Energy & Environmental Sciences

Let’s start with the formation and evolution of mountains. Mountains represent the spiritual places in our lives that connect us to the heavens; think of them as the behaviors, beliefs, and patterns that link us most closely to the divine beyond us. They are the place where the lowly, terrestrial things reach up to the high things not bound by gravity. How are these “peaks” formed in our lives? A host of factors layer upon one another to create a diverse array of mountains. But one thing is guaranteed: violent energy.

Mountains are birthed by pressure and fire, such as in volcanos, or by monumental collisions, like when the subterranean tectonic plates shift. I see this truth resonating in my own existence.

There have been times where something fiery and explosive wells up inside me, and its glorious eruption on the surface of my awareness brings a lot of destruction. With volcanic spiritual growth, things are burned - old comforts, old beliefs, and usually quite of bit of ego and confidence in my understanding of the world. In these violent eruptions, the ash and smoke of loss obscure the heavens and cloak everything in grey for a time. Grief lingers, tinging the air with the smell of loss. Spiritually, I feel lost in these times, unable to see the heavens with clarity. Feeling distant from the divine beyond us, and filled with longing for blue skies and warm sunsets. I may be prone to question the integrity of my God in these violent moments of change. It’s hard to lose comfort, beliefs, and ego. But something better is coming with time. When the ash of loss settles, it nourishes the soil of my soul and lays a foundation for something verdant and glorious to adorn my heart. I’m learning to trust that the skies will clear, and that the heavenlies do not disappear when they are obscured. I’m learning to trust that the burning will not last forever, and that what was lost will be restored to me better than before.

This is a hard lesson. Loss is brutal. So often I feel like I can’t take another hit, another loss. When something sweeps in and burns up something I once took comfort in, or once believed to be true, or took pride in… I am shaken. To be honest, I tend to sulk in those ashes. But time is proving wisdom’s truths. With each passing season, I see the growth that comes after the fire and it kindles hope within me. I see the deeper intimacy, the truer trust, and the clearer understanding that follows these painful eruptions. And when I climb that volcanic summit for the first time, I realize I cannot go back to the way things were. I’ve grown for the better. It was hard, but worthy change.

It is also worth considering that volcanos can lie dormant, but there is always potential for fresh fire to flow. How true of our spiritual lives! May we stay open to receiving the healing, transformative nature of fire. As for me, I pray I embrace the fires of refinement. To make room for the new, the old must yield. It feels like one of those universal truths that make up the gridlines of our reality. How strange then that we hate to yield what we know! But friends, how else does change bring its work? Let's yield the old to nourish the new.

What of the mountains that form by collision? What lessons might they teach us?

This too resonates in the web of my history. It is a rare, but profound event. Subliminal things collide - perhaps a conflict of beliefs - and they crash above the surface of our awareness, producing a whole range of mountaintops to explore. What kind of collisions produce these “mountaintops” of spiritual awareness? Perhaps it’s the friction between feeling that life is precious and valuable, and yet so often snuffed out without reason or rhyme. Or the injustice that one person aches and strives for the miracle of a child, and another despises the ones they have. Maybe it’s the jarring collision that God claims He is good, just, kind, compassionate, and all-powerful and yet His creation so often writhes in agony, seemingly unaided.

Whatever the collision is, it’s intense. A conflict great enough to rupture the surface of your existence and change the landscape of your perspective entirely.

Imagine for a moment how literally-earth-shaking it would be to witness the birth of a mountain range. This is profound, monumental change. There is no going back from these moments. Erosion may reshape them, but they will forever mark the landscape of your soul. There are conflicts and questions that are so significant and compelling that they drive us toward the heavens, even as we shake from the terror of them. There is something about these deep collisions of my soul that drives me into a new landscape. When logic fails, when human wisdom fails, when our little ways of understanding the world fall short of making sense of things, when injustice or sudden loss shake me to my core, I’m learning to trust the lesson of the mountains. When I allow those things to collide, when I ask the hard questions, when I face the conflict that aches in my bones and screams to be heard, I allow new mountains to form, new ways of reaching to the heavens. To avoid these collisions, by the way, would result perhaps in a massive chasm, a deep pit of darkness in myself that’s too shrouded in shadow to foster life, except for deep-sea monsters perhaps. So we must see that life is painful; period. The only choice is what path of pain you choose and what will it afford you.

I long for change, but the shakings of it are terrifying. There is a deep loneliness in change. Everything looks different, and you can’t relate to the world the way you used to. But here again time proves the wisdom of waiting in trust. When the shakings and tremblings of these internal collisions settle, the result is stunning. They are new, and probably perilous, but the peaks are full of majesty and cloud. What emerges from the shakings of life’s hardest questions is a whole range of new ways to view the divine beyond us. And what's more, with time, those places of collision become cloaked with life. They also become storehouses of snow to provide water in seasons of heat and drought. Blessing follows the struggle and loss and outshines them both. But it all starts with that terrible season of shaking and shattering.

This lesson requires patient and meek trust. But its rewards are rich and varied. You can feel the difference in a person who has allowed those collisions to break the surface of their perspective and in a person who has avoided the mighty work of these universal conflicts and is left with gaping chasms instead. Those who endure the pain of change and challenge can mingle with the divine beyond us, but that those who refuse to break the ground with the many griefs of life will never truly mingle with cloud, or find halls of green and mountain streams within their soul. But what other glory is worth such shaking? Oh God, that I would have the courage to endure the pain of these tectonic shiftings of the soul. Birth cannot happen without labor, it seems. I hope that the horizons of my soul change in due time, broken by the silhouettes of mountains both old and new. I pray I allow the shaking that raises up new places of mingling with the divine beyond us, that I don't grow weary.

Let me not lie dormant, or divided by chasms. Let me welcome the mountains, in all their dangers and all their splendor, so that I may rise up to the heavens and meet with the divine beyond us. How could I settle for less?