The Mountain

I grew up in the little town of Palm Springs, nestled into the base of Mt. San Jacinto. The mountain looms over almost every childhood memory I have; my house and my schools were all within a mile or two of it and there were few places in town that were not dominated by its sheer size and presence. It remains a powerful emotional reminder of who I was when I lived in its shadow; a touchstone, a memory, a symbol.

This is not a foothill; not a gradual slope. Mt. San Jacinto rises almost vertically up from the flat desert floor, 10,834 feet of rough, rocky terrain. It dominates the flat, low-slung town below it. When I was a child, it had a powerful physical effect on my everyday life - the mountain protected us from storms and controlled the daylight. On many of the perfect sunny days of my childhood, I would look up and see the clouds behind the mountain, held at bay by its height and mass. It might be raining to the west, but we had clear skies and warm sun. In the late afternoons, the sun would drop behind the mountain and its shadow would gradually spread across town, stretching ever eastward. Dusk always hit the houses at the base of the mountain first because of this shadow - days were shorter there. I always thought that it was as if the mountain were embracing us, pulling us close in the gathering dusk. I don't think that it is a coincidence that the temple I grew up in eventually rebuilt its synagogue to face the mountain. Over the torah, there are now windows that fill with the sight of the mountain. Even in God's own house, the mountain dominates and inspires awe.

The mountain affected people as well. If you were to plot a map of wealth distribution in the Palm Springs area when I was young, it would have been an almost perfect progression. The wealthiest people lived the closest to the mountain - the fanciest neighborhoods were up against its base. At the far end of the valley, incomes were much lower and the mountain more distant. Wealth bought you proximity to that sheltering, overwhelming, monolith. People wanted to be as close as they could be.

You can take a tram car up to the top of Mt. San Jacinto, or pretty close to it, and look down on the city. I remember the thrill of childhood trips to the top - from there, you could see how small everything really was. It was like getting a unbiased view of your own life; a dispassionate understanding of the size of your own problems and influence. It was humbling and inspiring at the same time. I always felt a huge sense of relief - the problems of the real world were so far away up there. I was always slightly disconcerted, at the same time, without the mountain looking down on me. Space seemed bigger, the world more empty. It was always a relief to come down again, too.

As an adult, I moved far away from my childhood home. I gradually forgot about the mountain, about its presence, until I didn't even miss it. The demands of life - work, marriage, children - distracted me. I got used to the foothills that Angelinos call the Santa Monica Mountains, and then grew accustomed to the gray cloudy flatness of London. The mountain was still there, intellectually speaking, but it held no real pull for me. I was busy; it was distant; there were places to go and things to see. I drifted.

I moved back to the Coachella Valley this year, after having been gone for 27 years. This time, I moved to one of the towns down valley, farther away from Mt. San Jacinto but still under its control. The view of the mountain here is better, and it is easier to see the beauty and complexity of the mountain, but at the same time it is farther away; less immediate. It is gorgeous, but not overwhelming. It is the difference between my child's view of the world, my child's understanding of God, and my adult perceptions. That all-encompassing feeling of being part of the mountain is not here, but I am better able to appreciate its unique spectacle.

On Sundays when I drive my children to my childhood temple, though, so that they can experience the mountain and God at once, I know that the feeling has not left me entirely. For a few moments after I drop them off, I always stand outside and look up at San Jacinto and feel like a child again. I marvel as the years fall away and the wonder and magic of childhood makes a brief appearance. I am different in Palm Springs than I am anywhere else, more myself; more heart and less mind. I am in the presence of the mountain.