Between thought and memory

I stand before the mirror in my bathroom, the early light slanting through the window as I twist to see the raven’s inked across my back. Hugin and Munin, thought and memory, their wings spread in eternal vigilance over the knife-pierced skull between them. Some mornings, like today, seem to shift with my breathing, as if the tattoo carries life.

"Morning, old friends," I whisper to their reflection.

Twenty-three years since Afghanistan. Twenty-three years of carrying what happened there, the weight settling differently as time passes. I wasn't even supposed to be a combatant…just an analyst with a laptop and a gun I barely knew how to use, dropped into those razor-edged mountains to gather signals intelligence.

The Hindu Kush taught me things no training manual could prepare me for.

I move to the kitchen, where morning light catches on the empty chair at my table. The third seat from the left, slightly pulled out, as if someone just stepped away for a moment. This space is held sacred for those who never returned. This morning ritual grounds me, a quiet acknowledgment of absence that somehow makes the day's presence more acute.

Outside, the Colorado mountains rise against the morning sky, their peaks touched with gold. They are so different from those other mountains that still haunt my dreams, yet somehow a continuation of the same story: my story, written across two ranges on opposite sides of the world.

The trailhead is quiet this morning, and most hikers are still asleep or just beginning their day. I prefer these solitary dawn hikes, when the world feels new and the mountains hold their secrets close. My pack settles comfortably between my shoulders, where the ravens watch from beneath my shirt.

The Rockies have become my therapy room, church, and proving ground. Each summit reached is a victory not over an enemy but over the darkness within. Each step on these trails is a step away from those other mountains, yet somehow also a step toward understanding what they taught me.

As I climb, the weight in my chest isn't just from exertion but also from memory: different mountains, different sky, but the same weight of experience.

Halfway up, I pause at an overlook. The valley spreads below me, morning mist still clinging to the lower slopes. I've been having a recurring dream lately…I'm back in the Hindu Kush, but instead of fear, I feel peace. It's like the mountains are trying to tell me something.

"What are you saying?" I whisper to the distant peaks.

The answer comes not in words but in the feeling that rises within me: that beauty and pain can exist in the same place, that height brings perspective, and that survival isn't just about staying alive but about finding meaning in being alive.

I continue upward, each step a meditation, each breath a prayer of sorts. Not to any god, but to something deeper; perhaps to the mountains themselves, or to the person I used to be before those distant peaks changed me forever.

The trail crests, opening to a small alpine meadow dotted with wildflowers. I drop my pack and sit on a sun-warmed boulder, letting the silence of the high country wash over me. Here, between earth and sky, the voices in my head are quieted to a manageable whisper.

"I'm writing it all down," I say aloud to the empty air, to the ravens on my back, to the part of myself that still needs healing. "Everything. The mountains. The fear. The beauty. The cost."

The wind carries my words away, but I know they've been heard. By whom or what, I couldn't say. The mountains, perhaps. The memories. The part of myself that's still learning to heal.

I sit in silence as clouds move across the blue Colorado sky, casting shadows that race across distant peaks. Not the shadows of war, but of natural beauty, of time passing as it should. In this moment, I feel the fullness of what I've learned: that healing isn't about forgetting, but about integration. That memories can be carried without being crushed by them. That honor means living well with the gift of survival.

The ravens on my back have watched it all. Thought and Memory, witnessing every stumble, every victory, every moment of choosing to live rather than just survive. They've seen me learn to carry my stories without being defined by them alone.

"Till Valhalla," I whisper to the mountains, to the empty air, to those who cannot hear but somehow always listen.

I gather my pack and begin the descent, the downhill journey no less meaningful than the climb. Each step takes me back toward the world of the living, but I carry the heights with me…the perspective, clarity, and understanding that can only come from standing above it all, seeing where I've been and where I might go.

Later, in the quiet evening, I'll sit at my kitchen table. The empty chair will keep its silent vigil. The ravens will keep their watch. But tonight, the memory feels different. A presence rather than an absence. A conversation continuing across time and space and mountains.

Between the Hindu Kush, which taught me about war, and the Rockies, which taught me about peace, I've found my path. Between thought and memory, between what was and what could be, I navigate this life I never expected to have.