The truck was packed and I was readying myself to leave “Our Home on the Lake” for the last time. It had been our nest for almost two years and the view from the 25-foot glass windows overlooking the lake had given me so much. Not once had I walked in the house without feeling the punch of it. The expansiveness of the natural beauty always hit me in a special way.

But it was time to leave and time to say goodbye. Time to say thank you, too.

As I heard the sounds of last minute doors slamming and children calling, I walked over to the front of the house and stood on the deck, my arms wide open.

I said goodbye.

Goodbye to the lake that had been my daily inspiration. Goodbye to the summer screeches of people playing on the water, music blasting and reminding me of how much fun can come from speed and loud toys. Goodbye to the sweet little farmhouses on the other side of the water who had provided me with a sense of human companionship as I spent winter days cocooned up in my cozy home, writing or painting, the lake a quiet shade of Payne’s gray. Goodbye also to the eagles who had flown so close to me that I could see their eyes and who knew to perform the perfect dances at the perfect times. Finally – and that was maybe the hardest part – goodbye to The Mountain.

Mount Baker, in its faraway beauty, had once again been my companion through many pieces of life. Big, strong, somehow strangely feminine despite its male-like strength, Mt Baker had shown itself to me in eerily bright pink morning light, in barely there ghost-like presence bathed in thick fog, in glorious white snowiness; it had often hid behind the Washington clouds and yet, somehow, its majesty remained palpable. I could count on Mt Baker to remind me of how small whatever was bothering me really was and I could count on Mt Baker to celebrate how important what was thrilling me really was.

Starting tomorrow morning, I would have to do without.

I was ready.

So, moved we did and within a few days we were happily settled into our new home, excitedly discovering its own set of gifts.

The water, once again, was part of our daily delight as we watched the tankers cross the channel pulled by tiny tugboats.

Summer was mostly spent on the deck and I still got to connect with “my” mountain during frequent trips to town. I missed its constant presence and yet, having said goodbye, I was resigned to the form of our new relationship.

And then, one day, it happened.

A friend was visiting from out of town and he was standing on the deck, enjoying the sweetness of the late summer.

Casually, he turned towards me and said: “nice mountain.”

My mind stopped for a second as I wondered if he was being facetious. Did he know about my determined goodbyes of late? Did he know about my loss? What was he trying to say?

Before my mouth could catch up to my thoughts, my eyes followed his and landed… right on the tippy-top of Mt Baker.

My feet were decidedly anchored onto the deck of our new home and I was looking straight at It. At Him. At Her.

It took me a little while to explain to my guest that, well, really, I did not know that the mountain was there. He seemed slightly surprised and his attention moved on to other things.

That gave me a chance to take a second look at my old companion – who might very well have been smiling – and to breathe deeply. Granted, this was no longer the breathtaking, full-on view that we knew. This was a more intimate view, framed perfectly by two swooping branches of pine trees who might have grown exactly for the purpose of doing just that.

As it turns out, and upon overly casual questioning, everyone in the home knew about our Mountain view. No one had deemed it worth mentioning because… heck, no one had said goodbye.

So here you go, the Gift of Mt Baker:

I did not see the Mountain because I had said goodbye to it.

The day that we decided to move, I had began mourning its presence.

Never, did I consider the possibility of it coming with us. And so, when it did, I could not see it.

Mt. Baker had once again accompanied me on an important journey and that felt very right.

That’s a big deal and the magnitude of its message was not lost on me: Where else was I NOT seeing something because I had decided that it would not be there? Where else was I deciding in advance the way something might turn out?

And really, where else might we all be doing this?