An Afternoon Meditation Upon Kilimanjaro

Perhaps one of my favorite images of my personal Kilimanjaro...

The sun has dipped behind the valley walls, shrouding even the tallest peaks. Outside there is but a slight breeze and the temperature hovers just below that of frozen water. There is a certain still-quietness, which indicative of small places in the early days of winter at ninety-one sixty.

I watch the scene from my window, listening to the Tea Party and sipping hot assam tea. This is perfection, or at least as perfect as it can be without being boring. The song Coming Home is playing, which always gets me to think of late afternoons in the mountains.

My gaze follows the sheer vertical ascent of terrain to the summit of the twelve-thousand foot peak along the northern rim of the valley. This mountain has a name. A proper one given to it some time in the past by those who first mapped this part of the world. I call it Kilimanjaro, because there is something about that peak, which speaks to me in African rhythms.

I have wandered around that mountain a fair amount whilst on walkabout. Either from the window or the porch I have gazed upon its summit. Their is a certain tranquility I find in gazing at it, which I have a hard time putting into language. I have never been possessed of the urge to climb mountains, persey, but one day, I truly want to stand upon the summit of this one.