I am a Colorado girl, born and raised by a native. I grew up spending my Fourths of July in the tiny mountain town of Grand Lake, my Septembers driving over Boreas Pass once the Aspens changed, and every nice day outside. The mountains quiet my soul like no other place, person, or word of wisdom ever has. I feel more awe and wonder at the top of Pikes Peak than I probably ever will in a cathedral. In Colorado, regardless of whether you're Catholic or Jewish or Muslim or agnostic, we can all pretty much agree on one thing: the mountains are calling.

Spirituality looks like the view from the top of Trail Ridge Road in Rocky Mountain National Park, like the Colorado River meandering under the old wooden bridge down the road from our family cabin, like the blue of the sky above timberline.

It tastes like enchiladas wrapped in homemade tortillas, like rainbow trout caught fresh that afternoon, like the clear thinness of the evergreen air.

It sounds like the lodgepole pines whooshing their needles against each other in a quiet cacophony, like dark summer thunderclouds rolling predictably at two in the afternoon, like the first chord of "Sleep on the Floor" by The Lumineers.

It feels like standing at the top of Red Rocks Amphitheater on a clear day when, even though the stage is empty, the twin monolithic rocks echo with the memories of every time that thousands of people felt completely alive.