Snow stored on high country ridges will not keep. Old snow ices. New snow accumulates. It is like this all winter until, one day, the mountains contain all they can bear. They give way.
This ritual of surrender sounds like the rumble of earthquakes. Entangled with the spiny tree limbs, slid snow looks like burial mounds. In its wake, fresh-cut chutes echo emptiness.
Though the mountains give way, rejoice.
All the accumulated beauty and burden of your season will not keep. In gratitude, you have collected both joy and pain, each gifts full-bloomed in their own time. Some the wind dispersed. Some slipped away under the sun. Almost everything has run its course, now. Let go.
It is an end, but also the beginning of something new, something unbearable if not for the riotous surrender. Something you could never hold while still grasping what was meant to be given away.
Though your mountains give way, rejoice. Though the lonely canyon rings empty as a gaping wound, it is only space. Space enough for what follows the harvest of plenty: a season of new growth.
Life Out Here 