Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home; that wildness is a necessity.
― John Muir

I admit that I am tired, nerve-shaken and over-civilized. This summer in particular I had little time to get out into the stunning Pacific Northwest nature and unplug, destress and rekindle my love for the wild.

In the last few months I have moved to a new place, had three visitors and took a trip to Colorado, all while working nights and weekends. My very bones felt exhausted, my soul drained. I yearned to get out of the city to walk on a trail on a mountainside, touching the trees as I went, infusing my heart with their healing energy.

Rhododendrons seemed to have moved into my neighborhood like a swarm of Olympic athletes each eager to show off their blooming colors: be it magenta, lilac, white with pink edges or the deepest shade of purple.

Like a clueless observer I stand with my mouth agape, easily swayed between the exuberance of indigo and the innocence of pure white. All of a sudden walking down the street turns into a task of picking a favorite child – however do I choose?

My love for reading began when I was ten. My best friend and I would walk forty minutes through the city to get to the nearest library where we would spend hours perusing their offerings, reading summaries to each other to see what story we wanted to read next and checking out books by the dozen, coming home with sore shoulders from the press of the stack.