Holy

Angeles Crest highway, New Years Eve

I’d like to go to the mountains when I’m dead.. there would be no where else to go. I would finally know the coldest cold, the highest heat, the lowest drop, the tallest peak. There would be no consequence, completely free as a tumbling rock - inertia that knows no bound. It’s moments like these I am reminded of her density:

I am here, I am welcome, and I, too will be dead one day. Thankfully. I can almost see me up there; a little disembodied whisper in the wind. How holy am I. How holy are we?