Flying grasshoppers launch themselves just above the grass in a lengthy display of bright yellow wings and a "ratchety" sound that trumpets their announcement, "I'm here!"

I sit against an old fire weathered tree under a ball of fleeting blue sky - being pushed around between the surrounding mountain thunderheads - grumbling thunder, dark with water.

My back rest is a gnarled aspen - sitting in an aspen grove. Quaking green round blades, yet to turn gold, send a whispering chorus on the wind. The under-growth is thick with wild flowers and grasses that grow over fallen limbs and tickle black scarred trunks.

Nature's orchestra performs a music it knows by heart. Hill top stands of pine and aspen answer each other in echoing choral rounds. Birds call to each other and bees and flies add their buzz to the rustling grass in a windy blend - punctuated by distant thunder.

It has taken me 3 years to make my way back "here". After 45 minutes of Denver rush hour traffic; getting lost; arriving late and pitching my tent in the rain; and spending the first two nights sleeping cold and uncomfortable - I seriously questioned the "point". But, finally - on the third day, settling down on the ground with my back against this tree - I began to remember why I came back.

I came back to hear the song of the mountains.

People have "retreated" to the mountains for hundreds of years - seeking sanctuary; and replenishment (or "re-creation" / recreation) of their strength - their "power".
I'm not expecting this 4 days in the mountains to "heal" me, but my inner self knows that - in retreating to the mountains - there is healing to be found.

So, I come to the grove with my inner struggles and lean back against this tough old tree and admit my frailties and follies and pitiful pleas for a better life.
I'm here. And if I listen carefully and feel - I may receive some healing and inspiration .... if I truly listen to the mountain's song.

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