Waiting

For weeks after this sail on the lake my life was like a fête
day. Expeditions of all sorts were planned and carried out for
my pleasure. One day we were exploring the lake shores in a
boat; the next, we went back into the country, as far as we
could go and return before evening; a third day we climbed the
mountains somewhere and got glorious new views of what the
world is. Nothing could hinder, in those days, but that my
draught of pleasure was very full. Whatever weight might lie
at my heart, when I found myself high, high up above the
ordinary region of life, resting on a mountain summit from
which I looked down upon all that surrounded me other days; a
little of that same lifting up befel the thoughts of my heart
and the views that have to do with the spirit's life. I stood
above the region of mists for a little. I saw how the
inequalities of the lower level, which perplex us there, sink
into nothing when looked upon from a higher standpoint. I saw
that rough roads led to quiet valleys; and that the blessed
sunlight was always lying on the earth, though down in one of
those depths one might lose sight of it for a time. I do not
know how it is, but getting up into a high mountain has a
little the effect of getting out of the world. One has left
perplexities and uncertainties behind; the calm and the
strength of the everlasting hills is about one; the air is not
defiled with contentions or rivalries or jealousies up there;
and the glory of creation reminds one of other glory, and
power, and wisdom and might; and one breathes hope and rest.
So I used to do. Of all our excursions, I liked best to go up
the mountains. No matter how high, or by how difficult a road.