I was living in a village near the bottom of Mt. St. Helens when it blew. We had lived there for eight years. We had taken our children up to it and gone sledding, building snow forts, making snow angels, the works.
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It was our mountain. Our beautiful mountain. It reminded me of an upside-down ice-cream cone. It was perfect in every way. Everyone knew it was a volcano, but it had formed thousands of years before and would continue like it was for thousands of years in the future. It was our mountain, and it belonged to us to do with as we pleased.
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But it wasn’t our mountain. One morning I looked outside. It seemed as though we had been plunged into the inside of a furnace with all its ashes. I stared. It was snowing gray ash. I stared more, wondering what the birds had done. Relieved, I saw them huddled together under bushes.

Of course, the radio and TV had switched to Emergency. We were told to stay indoors because ash is deadly to the lungs. If we did go out, we had to wear surgical masks. If we drove, we were told to put nylons over the air filter and to not go over 10 mph. Even then, the ash flew everywhere. Our freeway entrance and exit were blocked. The most disturbing thing I heard on the radio (yes, everyone kept their radio on) was that we were at the top of the San Andreas Fault. And so, we like the birds, huddled and waited for more unknown.

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Not only was our mountain turned inside out, but our world was too.
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People have expressions that something is “as eternal as the mountains” or “as old as the hills.” Not true. Nothing on earth is eternal. That also includes things, people, power, position, belongings, even dreams. Eventually, they quake and sway and are gone. Only that which is spiritual is forever.