The Mountain

There are days when I hate Table Mountain. I know people think I'm crazy for that, I know I am supposed to say 'she makes me grateful that I live here, grateful that I am alive'. But she looms over me, reminds me that I am far from the places where I am comfortable and at ease. She stands between my house and my office, making a twenty minute journey into an hour and a half. Every morning to get around her feels like a battle, her arrogant slopes irritate my tired mind.

Some days it is so misty that I cannot see her. When I'm down, I'm grateful of this. I can forget where I am for a while, cacoon myself in my little house and watch mindless TV, oblivious to the world outside.

She sees everything, the mountain. Stands idly by as people lose hope and die. Feels tourist after tourist trapse up her and make innane comments about the beauty of her slopes and of her city. What they don't see is the sorrow she watches over. The pain and the frustration that is this city. On sad days, this is all I can see in her.

But today, taking the bin out, I am astounded by the sight of her. I think of Antjie Krog saying

'I stretch out my palms to
pull the image of the mountain in-
to my arms, the mountain
into whose spell I look up daily.'

She is amazing and graceful, with wisps of cloud dancing around her chest, and flocks of white birds flying before her. I am glad to greet her this morning. I suddenly understand why people worship mountains, hallow them as sacred ground, as guardians.

On days like these she does her assigned duty; she makes me glad to be here, glad to be alive.