I want to climb (see) mountains again, mountains, Gandalf

I'm not one for favorites, generally. What's my favorite color? All the greens of the trees and blues of the seas, the oranges, crimsons, violets of summer sunsets, the first daisies, trilliums and snowdrops come spring, the color of distant mountains, each season of sky from icy winter blue to gentian summer, coffee and spring-sky eyes, emeralds, amethyst and precious jewels, the color of twilight filled with countless stars and an archaic, fae moon.
What's my favorite number? Number of what?
Favorite time? 1224, 1248, 1111, 1234, 248, 1144, 1122, 1236, 1020. I don't know. What is a favorite time, anyway? My favorite time is time with people, time with everyone I love dearly.
Favorite pair of pants? Shirt? Shoes? I have 1 pair of shoes, a few pairs of pants, and as many shirts as P last gave me because he felt like I needed more clothing.

There are some things I do have favorites for, though, things over which my partiality gets the better of me. The one greatest example that's been stuck on my mind all day is mountains. I have a favorite mountain. It also is one of my favorite Sabbath locations, places of prayer, and a place I climb whenever possible. Matthew knows of it - he probably introduced us, Si and I. Oh, I so desperately want to visit, to scamper up its steep incline, racing towards the summit, and seeing everything stretched out below from Seattle, to the Olympics, to Mount Rainier, to the Cascades, and the entire valley in between, with the Snoqualmie river and each tiny town stretched along its course.

One of the beauties of this land is that I'm surrounded by mountains. Less than an hour drive probably brings me to the mountains on either side. So at least I don't suffer as Bilbo does. I'm already seeing mountains. Now I just want to reverently scale them.

Tolkein
The wind was on the withered heath,
But in the forest stirred no leaf:
There shadows lay be night or day,
And dark things silent crept beneath.

The wind came down from mountains cold,
And like a tide it roared and rolled.
The branches groaned, the forest moaned,
And leaves were laid upon the mould.

The wind went on from West to East;
All movement in the forest ceased.
But shrill and harsh across the marsh,
Its whistling voices were released.

The grasses hissed, their tassels bent,
The reeds were rattling—on it went.
O'er shaken pool under heavens cool,
Where racing clouds were torn and rent.



“Ah, Teneriffe!”
By Emily Dickinson

Ah, Teneriffe!
Retreating Mountain!
Purples of Ages — pause for you —
Sunset — reviews her Sapphire Regiment –
Day — drops you her Red Adieu!

Still — Clad in your Mail of ices –
Thigh of Granite — and thew — of Steel –
Heedless — alike — of pomp — or parting

Ah, Teneriffe!
I’m kneeling — still –