My Meter of Mountain
So, we had this great view out our back balcony. The treetops of the water park across the street (well, it has water fountains, so we call it the water park) fell within our gaze. From there, the mountains rose up - just the beginning edge of a ridge. Somewhere on the other side of that ridge is a spectacular hotel called the Grand Hotel, with an enormous wooden roof of red and gold, but it was out of our sightline. Still, we knew it was there.

On the best days, the clearest of days Taipei will begrudgingly offer, there was a more spectacular sight. On those days we could see (maybe only twice or three times to memory), we could see the furthest mountains down the spine of the island. Almost a dream, they hovered in a misty pale you could barely call green. But the distance, the unbelievable distance, was there for your eyes to see.

Then the building came.

After the noise and shake of the giant hole, steel framework grew, chased by scaffolding covered with a plastic blue tarp. This team of plastic and steel raced towards the sky. Soon we could see nothing without craning our necks. At over ten stories (we're on the 4th) it became quite a stretch to see any blue at all. The sky is up there, we're just not exactly sure where.

But after an interminable amount of time (over a year?) something happened. The scaffolding, story by story, came down. And, as it came down, we saw a gap. A tiny gap, relatively speaking, but a gap of about a meter between the new building, and the old building that exists next to it. And in that meter we can see. In that meter we can see the mountains. One lousy meter, and the earth and heavens meet for us. That's the slice God gave us. And it works for me.

I can see.

What more do I want? I can see that slice of what it used to be for me.

I count my blessings where I can. And I look forward to that day when the sun will burn off the haze and show me the distance and wonder that exists there every single day, just a bit hidden from what I perceive.