Faint images drift in and out of my dreams. Thoughts of planes, trains, and snowy roadsides are brought to mind. The distant smell of crisp, fresh mountain air wafts across my imagination. Slowly my eyelids flutter open. I become aware of my body warmly wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, cool air drifting across exposed skin. As further awareness sets in I hear the enchanting voice of restless wind trying to pry its fingers through my cracked window. Another sound meets my ear. Several voices raised in song, in praise, in welcome of a new morning; Christmas morning. Bells toll in many different tones. A beautiful, strong, thrumming fills the mountain air, bounding off the cliffs.
Mountains? Switzerland! I am in Switzerland, awakening to a joyous morn. A deep, contented breath slips through my lips. I close my eyelids once again, reveling in the serene beauty of my first morning in a new land. Soon though, I open my windows to reveal yet another guest and joyous celebrater of Christmas morn. Sheets of pure white snow fall heavily down. A magical world lay outside my window.
As we prepared to brace against the outside air, an elder man heads our way. Coming up to me without a word, he lets drop a vibrant orange sphere into my outstretched hands, a soft bon jour graces his lips. After handing one to the other three, he walks back to where he’d come. Gazing down into my hands, a warm glow fills my heart. An orange. A blessed Christmas orange. So small, and yet, the most precious gift I ever could imagine having received. It’s amazing how when one is a stranger to a strange land, how much even the smallest of thoughtful acts means more than gold itself.
Everywhere I turned my heart nearly stopped. The beauty that surrounded was too much to take in. And then the clouds lifted. Glorious mountains outstretched towards the heavens set watch over all the valleys. Yet watch them in turn was all I could do. Like a breath-taking painting come to life, I gazed as the sun slipped in and out of the clouds above, its soft fingers dancing upon the mountains’ face.
Anyone who ever claims there is not a god, that this world came from nothing, apparently has never laid eyes upon that which I now beheld. A simple word such as beauty shall never compare; but no word will ever be found that can encompass such astounding architecture composed by the One on high. Its surreal majesty declares its Creator more loudly than the explosion of molecules inside the atom bomb. For only One could ever paint something so breath taking. Only One who has seen or One who is a million times more brilliant could ever be inspired to create such a masterpiece as this.
When evening comes and the sun fades away, a new scene comes into play. At first glance, the night we arrived, I did not appreciate the beauty beheld in a far off city’s fine glow. Pretty, sure, but I didn’t come to see a city. I came to experience the mountains. Where is that rural ruggedness so often we try to run away to? If I wanted to see city lights Minneapolis has it all.
However, after two evenings passed, I felt a whisper of something more. As I gazed out my window at nighttime’s surreal state, a fairy tale feel washed over me. Three stories up on the side of a cliff makes one feel as if they live in a castle, staring off over vast mountains of impenetrability. I imagined a long flowing gown garnishing my thin frame, golden locks riding upon the wind. And then I’d look at the distant villages. Simply put, the glow of city lights confounded me. How was one to fit man made light into the essence of a fairy tale?
I studied the mountains cradling the light. Like strong, majestic hands withered with time; and lying in their palm were sparkles of gold. And then it hit me. Beheld in mine eye was a chest of gold. But this was no ordinary trove. Not littered with greed, nor clothed in pride; But an aura of innocence and beauty divine. The image of a woman, who goes about her day, never looking in the mirror, not conceited nor vein. Unknown to her, but plain as day, a natural allure is shown through grace, made more profound by her humble ignorance. That is how the mountains light shone.
Everything about Switzerland seems to stir thoughts, feelings, long forgotten. Moving with rapid motion, yet with an agenda all their own, no one seems to be in a hurry. None wish to flit away the precious moments allotted them, to rush through a life lacking meaning. It’s almost as if they’ve found the key to living; accomplish what needs to be done, and cherish what’s left.
A refined people, they’re not ones to associate with ignorant pride. Show a brash nature, and they’ll show you their back. Show humility, and they’ll show a time-softened heart.
The French language is astounding to me. Sometimes it’s guttural, others it’s smooth and legato. Yet compared to English, its like comparing print to calligraphy. English is expressed quickly with no thought to pleasantries, while French is an art that takes time to produce. Yes to one adept in the skill it comes swift and rapid. But to one who is unaccustomed to it, it is a labored movement requirering great concentration.
After several days of exploring the craggy heights piercing heaven’s fringe, we ventured to the valleys below. Winding down the mountains side, we crisscrossed into a new world. Before us sat a famed beauty. Lake Geneva lay nestled amongst the feet of kings. Her gown a crystal blue, she emanated a demeanor unblemished.
Gazing upon her was like locking eyes with an untamed animal; a poisonous beauty begging you come closer. Her waters clearer than daylight, they held many a mystery. One look, and you had to restrain everything you were to not jump in; to feel her soft touch against your skin. Yet if temptation were to overcome reason, it would not take long for a deathlike elixir to settle within your bones. A tempting vixen, a cold as dark as night lay beneath her surface, bidding you to an eternal sleep.
