Near Moel Siabod exhausted and cold, in awe, I stand.
The cold, winter air fills my lungs, and ‘burns’.
The chilled wind hits my face, and numbs my ears and nose.
My hands reddened from the climb.
My aching legs, a reminder of how far I’ve travelled.
In this valley of paradox, I am alone, and yet surrounded by life.
The wind blows.
The grass and lichen grow.
The snow falls.
The rivulet, an unceasing energy, as water flows.
Life is all around,
for those who have eyes beyond eyes.
Humbled by the fast approaching snow storm, I can only but rest and stare,
and turn my face to it.
Where can I go, Leveler of mountains and Creator of valleys,
where can I go from your Presence, from your Spirit?
If I climbed to the giant’s cave, to the Lair of Myrrdyn,
and even wrestled Rhuddu Gawr, atop Yr Wyddfa, you are there.
If I descended to Conwy, and escaped The Gwyllgi, that foul dog of darkness,
in that deep valley, I would witness your all-powerful, benevolent Spirit.
Triune Lord of all, you see me here,
surrounded by rugged mountains, in this wintery, failing light.
And I see your handiwork.
Indeed, I see you.
I see the Friend in the grey granite, rugged mountains,
the soft green grass, underfoot,
and in the turbulet, unceasing flowing rivulet.
Triune Lord of all, I see you everywhere.
Emboldened, encouraged, and in-filled, I move on.
The journey continues.