Mountains
are things that I love. Some because I have climbed them, others because of
their imposing stature, but most because of their presence in my life. I grew
up in the mountains and I view them as protective and sheltering. One such mountain
is Bread Loaf Mountain in the Green Mountain Range of Vermont. Sometime past I
wrote about the Bread Loaf School of English in Vermont because that is where I
did my graduate studies in English. That school sits at the foot of Bread Loaf
Mountain.
The
mountain itself is not very imposing, especially for someone from the mountain
ranges of the west, but it is very comforting. It is a long somewhat flat
mountain that looks like a large loaf of bread. Who isn’t comforted by the
sustenance of bread? And I spent several years in its shadow studying English,
its history and its connections to the world. Everyone is comforted by their
native tongue so my associations with my own language and that particular
mountain in Vermont are indelibly entwined.
Now
I live at the base of a mountain in Idaho that looks very similar to Bread
Loaf. It is Moscow Mountain and it is here that I have spent years teaching
English to my own students. The connection is uncanny. So it is no surprise
that I love Bread Loaf Mountain, a mountain that I have not seen in several
years yet I see again every day when I look up at Moscow Mountain right out my
back yard. All the alluring comforts of my home, my language, and my people
rest at the base of these two mountains that are nearly 3,000 miles apart.
I
have climbed on Bread Loaf Mountain but its importance has differed to me in
the sense that the thought of conquering or cresting the mountain has never
carried any weight in my mind when it came to that particular mountain. Bread
Loaf seems to be a mountain put into my life more to conquer me than the other
way around. And its conquest has been of my being, my relationship with the
world and others. So while it may not look like Mount Everest it seems to be
much larger in calm assuring ways to me.
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