There is a landscape I love. When I
go above treeline in the mountains of New Hampshire, I fall in love. I find this place to be beyond
beauty—its hold on me is magnetic and unshakeable. The swoops and chasms of the
mountainsides, carved and shaped by thousands of days in the sun and wind and
snow give me a sense of time, of my own impermanence. The ridgelines and peaks
remind me of a lover, sleeping in the pre-dawn light. I gently trace the
silhouettes of these mountains in photographs, trying to touch my touchstones
from a distance. In the early summer, the subtle brilliance of the alpine flowers,
blooming out of shear tenacity, look like bright stars and laughter among the
grays and browns of the rocks. I first learned the stars themselves from these
mountains and the night sky of even unfamiliar lands always leads me back here.
I trust most easily the people I know from these mountains; I take on faith
that they share something with the deepest parts of myself. Each person is, of
course, different and their relationship with these mountains unique, but
perhaps only as unique as different stars in the same constellation.
When I hear of countries
disappearing under rising seas and melting ice, of people displaced from their
landscapes, I imagine what the loss of my landscape would do to my soul. From
that vantage point, it is not difficult for me to claw and tear towards
anything that will slow the climate’s change.
What you hold dear is both catalyst
and refuge. What we love, we must protect, says Sandra Steingraber. Crucial
here, I find, the reminder to love, that connections and hope and happiness and
joy are not, will not, must not be crushed at any cost.
I cannot tell you that everything
will be fine. I do not believe in lies and I do not doubt that things are going
to be, in some ways, horrific. I will tell you this—you are going to be fine.
You will go out into the world. You will find the things you cannot live
without, the realities that you are for,
the pieces that you will hold most dearly, and you will not let them go
lightly.
Bethany Taylor
White Mountains, New Hampshire
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