 "If you are faced with a mountain, you have several options. You can climb it and cross to the other side. You can go around it. You can dig under it. You can fly over it. You can blow it up. You can ignore it and pretend it's not there. You can turn around and go back the way you came. Or you can stay on the mountain and make it your home." --Vera Nazarian "Come on Mahhhm! You can do it," my youngest daughter said to me encouragingly. My oldest daughter, my youngest daughter, and their father had only stopped to wait on me a half-dozen times, thankfully unperturbed at the pauses in our forward progress. I leaned my butt up against a big ol' rock, bent to stretch and crinkled my nose in disgust at the squishy feel of wet socks inside my hiking boots. "Man, I'm out of shape," I thought. When I was growing up, we often had large Hill family picnics in the mountains at least once a year. I remember when it was time to hike up to the top of whatever mountain we happened to be on, the older family members would use large walking sticks they made us kids find for them, to help them steady their footing. They trudged along at a snail's pace, as the kids ran up ahead. "I am NOT old enough to need a walking stick, for Pete's sake," I thought and stood up, forcing myself to continue on with our upward assent. My calves burned, my thighs burned, I had sweat dripping down in all of my unmentionable places, making me pretty darn grumpy, but I kept my mouth shut and wondered for the hundredth time why on earth we climb mountains anyway! I heard excited shrieks from my girls up ahead. They'd climbed over a ginormous cropping of rocks and I hoped they hadn't plunged over the side, because I wasn't sure I'd be able to manage a rescue attempt. "Really? I have to climb OVER these?" I asked my husband snarkily. He climbed on top of the first huge rock, "I'll help," he assured me and offered his hand. I took it and he pulled me up the first hurdle. He held on tight as I picked my way over the steep and tricky footing, paying close attention to where I placed my boots so as not to fall and break...a leg, a hip, something! And then I looked up. Let me just say, it is quite impossible to look out over the view from the top of a mountain and STAY grumpy. The gentle breeze coaxed out my overheated, overall crankiness and blew it off to some distant place. I let my eyes take in every nuance and marveled at how amazing it was to be standing there. Calling the view beautiful would be blasphemous; it is exquisite, spiritual, quiet in a way that settles down into your bones. The trek up is a bear, but the rewards are worth it, and if you're lucky they last long after you've made your way back down.  
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About The Author
I grew up in rural North Carolina. When I was only nineteen, I moved away and became a military wife. My only aspiration at that tender time in my life was to create an adult life that "fixed" all of the "injustices" of my childhood. Secretly, however, I wanted to reach for the sky! I wanted to be a writer and find ways to "save the world" (my mother used to say, "You have Save the World Syndrome".). Mostly, I wanted to matter. Archives
May 2018
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