I went for a sunset hike up Crotched Mountain when I was in New Hampshire. It was so incredibly peaceful that even I, who avoids large bouts of total introspection like the plague, had what some might call a moment.
I've talked about Crotched before and I've talked about Betsy before, but it was wonderful to have some time alone with both up there. To commune, if you will.
(Please forgive me my use of commune as a verb. I was raised by hippie parents and thus can get uncomfortably new age-y while sentimental.)
When I told my aunt the next day about going up Crotched, she mentioned that the previous day had been the 33rd anniversary of Betsy's death. I'm generally not one for cosmic energy, but having unknowingly climbed the mountain where her ashes are scattered on the anniversary of her death, consciously feeling her presence all the while is eerie and wonderful and not soon to be forgotten.
(Please forgive me my use of commune as a verb. I was raised by hippie parents and thus can get uncomfortably new age-y while sentimental.)
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