Have you ever thought how therapeutic it is to cast your eyes in the distance and to look far far away? I was thinking about that yesterday as I was walking with my little black dog, Chloe, on the mountain here in Montreal. If you've never been to Montreal, you may not know that it's a city that's built around a forested hilly park (764 feet high), designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, who sculpted New York's Central Park. We call our park "the mountain."

The mountain is the place that everyone and his uncle can be found on a stunning summer Saturday like yesterday, walking, running or biking the wide shady trail that winds to the top. At clearings along the way, you can stop and look out for miles at the landscape far beyond the city – the fields, the St. Lawrence River, and even, on a clear day, all the way to Vermont.

During my walk yesterday, I was thinking of another time in my life, a much darker time right after my husband left, when I would walk the trail alone, long before Chloe was even a twinkle in her Jack Russell papa's eye. It was winter then, both literally and figuratively, and I'd made a promise to myself to get out of the house on Sunday mornings and come to the mountain, seeking the solace of nature. I thought of a particular day, when I was feeling so wretched that it was a Herculean effort to haul my sorry ass out the door and trudge my way up the hill.