As I step and step, each foot feels heavier by the second. I move with strong intention. I navigate
over twigs and rocks, between the trees, dodging the branches sticking into the path, breathing
heavier and heavier to the strum of my stride. I stop and find myself staring across the valley at a
mountain, standing big and bold, as though it is yelling directly at me, crying for help. I want to
help, but how? I think about everything it is giving me. Even when I am not physically standing
here on it.
It provides me with air when my supply is low.
It provides me with a physical challenge when desired.
It provides me with food when the shelves run out.
It provides me with its unstoppable view.
It provides a habitat in its heart full of binding twigs and flora and fauna and wildlife and me.
Always providing. Never being provided for.
This mountain donates its blood to supply human life. I continue on the trail. The trees look
brittle and my breath becomes weaker the higher I climb. This is how we connect.
My lungs inhale a sharp pain standing at the false summit of the mountain; it parades around me
in view. Showing off its beautiful build and laughing at the disaster humanity has created. I am
so small compared to this mountain; I am so small compared to Earth: a pin on a large map. The
birds chirp, trees sway, squirrels dance. The serene day is consumed by nature’s language. Each
piece of the mountain comes together as one body.
Birds being the soul.
Trees being the limbs.
Leaves being the dermis.
Squirrels being the strumming anxiety.
And it’s laughing right in my face. Growing louder by the second.
As though it is saying “You could experience this for generations. But… no.”
This is how we are told to connect though. I ask the mountain “but how do I help you, like you
help me?” It feels like a dumb question when all I do is take from its life. The birds go quiet but
the squirrels jump on the branches above, startling me.
I climbed down the mountains jagged teeth and rough skin. The Earth and I were both in pain.
Yet I had not realized how much pain one can withhold before they choose peace. One day I
conquered the mountain and my mind was running free.
Next I am gone.
One day, the Earth was standing tall and glorious.
Next his grounds cry in the form of a tsunami or a wildfire or nitrogen oxide.
And we were both in pain begging for help. For so long. We both reached for the slightest
helping hand, but that reach was met with pure destruction.
Josie Crawford is a new writer entering the literary publishing world after graduating from the University of Cincinnati this spring with a double writing degree.