I have always been in awe of the Appalachians and found them much more magnificent than their rockier, western counterparts. As a teenager, traveling from Michigan to visit family in Washington, DC, I looked forward to winding through the mountains on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, no matter the season.
This week, my husband and I had the opportunity to travel to a small Virginia town nestled in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. We arrived at night, and as I fell asleep in our downtown hotel room, I couldn’t wait to wake up and see the view.
I slept a little later than normal the next morning, and when I saw the faint gray light coming in around the edges of the window shade, I assumed the day was cloudy. But then the light changed to a rosy melon color, and I hopped out of bed and pulled up the shade, instantly drenching the room in sunlight.
Of course. The sky was clear, but the sun had to make its way over the mountains, first.
I could never become bored looking at this majestic ridge. It’s visible from just about anywhere in town, standing guard. And I imagine that, to the residents, that ridge takes on a personality of its own. Though stationary, one could watch it change colors and shift moods, different every day.
I might be a little envious of the people who live there.
My ever-supportive husband urged me to take advantage of a delayed checkout time so I could do some writing, and we hauled the little desk out of the corner and placed it beneath the window. I glanced up from the computer a few more times than normal, but the mountains weren’t distracting. They weren’t particularly an inspiration, either. I suppose the best way to describe them was a comfort.
In any case, a girl could certainly get used to writing with a view like this. I’m thankful I got to call it mine for a morning.