იდგნენ და ელოდნენ. უსაზღვროა მთების მოლოდინი; უსაზღვრო  ზღვადა სდგას იმათ გულში, წითლად, სისხლისფრად შედედებული უთიმთიმებსთ  გულ-მკერდში. გარეთ, სახეზე კი არაფერი ეტყობათ, გარდა მტერობისა. ეს არის  კიდევ ნიშანი მოლოდინისა. ვინ რა იცის, რა ამბავია მთების გულში, რა ცეცხლი  სდუღს და გადმოდის.

მთებო, მთებო! რას ელით, ვის ელით? ნუთუ გყავთ  სატრფო დიდიხნის უნახავი? იქნება შვილი დაჰკარგეთ? იქნება ძმა, ან დედა  გყავთ შორს წასული და არაფერი ამბავი მოგსვლიათ? პასუხი არ ისმის. სდგანან  წარბშეუხრელად. ელოდენ, ელიან და კვლავ ექნებათ მოლოდინი. რა დააშრობს იმათ  გულში იმ მოლოდინის ზღვას? არა აქვს იმას ბოლო, არც დასასრული, როგორც  ღვთაებას…

როცა ყველა სულდგმულს, მწერს, ბალახს, ყვავილებს, მდინარეს და  მოუსვენარს, დაუღალავს ნიავს დაეძინებათ, მაშინ, მხოლოდ მაშინ ამოიოხრებენ  და ცრემლსა ღვრიან. ჩვენ, კაცნი, მაშინ ვამბობთ: ახ, რა მძიმე ლოდივით  ნაღველი მაწევს გულზეო.

They were standing and waiting. The  mountains’ waiting is boundless; like a boundless sea it lies in their  heart; reddish, the color of blood, clotted, it quivers in their heart  and chest. Yet outside, on their face, nothing is visible except  hostility. This is also a sign of their waiting. Who knows, what goes on  in the mountains’ heart, what fire boils, and spills over.

Mountains,  oh mountains! What are you waiting for, who are you waiting for? Do you  really have a beloved whom you haven’t seen for a long time? Perhaps  you’ve lost a child? Perhaps a brother, or your mother has gone far  away, and you’ve had no news from either? No answer is heard. They stand  without twitching their eyebrows. They waited, they are waiting, and  again, they will continue to wait. What will dry up that sea of waiting  in their heart? It has no end, and no conclusion, like a deity…

When  every animate being, every flying insect, the grass, flowers, river,  and the restless, untiring wind fall asleep, then, only then will they  heave a sigh and shed tears. We, humans, at that point say: Ach, what  sadness, like a heavy stone, lies on my heart.

– Vazha-Pshavela, from The High Mountains

I barely scratched the surface.

– Fred Beckey

The Lost Boys on St Helens, April 21st 2018

“All his life had been based on this hostile kind of strength; a strength  that viewed the world as a thing to master, to overcome, to fight. As a  problem that might be solved by destroying. It seemed faintly  ridiculous to him now; and he found it difficult to remember that a life  could be based on such fear. There could, he thought, be no impulse to  destruction that was not rooted in some terrible fear, and he was no  longer afraid.”

– Don Berry, from Trask

Where Is Jim Harrison?

He fell off the cliff of a seven-inch zafu.
He couldn’t get up because of his surgery.
He believes in the Resurrection mostly
because he was never taught how not to.

Muncește ca un sclav, poruncește ca un rege, creează ca un zeu.
Work like a slave, command like a king, create like a god.

– Constantin Brâncuși

“I grow into these mountains like a  moss. I am bewitched. The blinding snow peaks and the clarion air, the  sound of earth and heaven in the silence, the requiem birds, the mythic  beasts, the flags, great horns, and old carved stones, the silver ice in  the black river, the Kang, the Crystal Mountain. Also, I love the  common miracles-the murmur of my friends at evening, the clay fires of  smudgy juniper, the coarse dull food, the hardship and simplicity, the  contentment of doing one thing at a time… gradually my mind has cleared  itself, and wind and sun pour through my head, as through a bell. Though  we talk little here, I am never lonely; I am returned into myself. In  another life-this isn’t what I know, but how I feel- these mountains  were my home; there is a rising of forgotten knowledge, like a spring  from hidden aquifers under the earth. To glimpse one’s own true nature  is a kind of homegoing, to a place East of the Sun, West of the Moon-  the homegoing that needs no home, like that waterfall on the supper Suli Gad that turns to mist before touching the earth and rises once again  to the sky.”

– Peter Matthiessen