Rock Climbing (Metaphorically Speaking)

(Note - I wrote this about 15 years ago.  Pics are from Moro Rock, Sequoia National Park, in the Sierra Nevadas in CA, 2005)

Imagine that you’re rock climbing.  Picture yourself starting at the bottom:  as you look up, you can’t see the top, because this rock is very very high.  But since there is nothing at the bottom, you decide to climb up.  You’ve never actually climbed rocks before, so at first, you teach yourself how to, and as you get enough strength and courage, you grab the first piece and pull yourself up.  You do that again and again, going straight up, gaining confidence until the first time your hand slips, or a piece of rock crumbles, and then you fall.  That first fall causes you to second-guess every piece of rock you think of grabbing next.  It also starts a cycle of gaining confidence and falling, and is only broken when you stop gaining confidence.  You begin to find yourself being more careful of what handholds you pull harder on, and what footholds you place your weight on.  This now causes you to sometimes move laterally, instead of always straight up.  Sometimes, you find, frustratingly enough, that you have to climb back down a little, move over, and then move up, because you get stuck at a certain point.  Every so often you find a ledge to relax and catch your breath on.  Every now and then you fall back to a previous ledge.

You soon begin to realize that you’re not the only one climbing this rock.  There are over five billion people climbing, doing the exact thing as you, falling and climbing and testing holds, and yet no one person has taken the exact same route as you. You find that some people will follow your lead, assuming you know which way to go.  Then you might see someone above you finding all the right spots, and you follow them.  Sometimes that works, other times not.  Some people will try to give you advice on which way to take, or how you can tell how strong a rock is by its look. Other people may even toss you a rope to pull yourself up to the next ledge.  A few people will tie a safety line from their waist to yours, and the two of you may climb together, working as a team.  Some teams reach the top, others don’t; your line may get torn, or the other person may think you’re too slow or even too fast. Some partners may get impatient, or you may find that they just climb better alone.  A few people may be just using you to get up to the next ledge faster.  Some people may even push you out of the way, in their self-made hurry to get to the top.  You hear people from below crying for help and from above shouting for joy.  Sometimes you’re tempted to scream or yell too.  And then sometimes, you may get tired.  Some people get tired, decide to stop where they’re at, and fall asleep.  They may decide that getting to the top isn’t worth the trouble.  No one knows what is at the top, and everyone has a different idea of what the ultimate search is for.  For 5 billion plus people, that uncertainty is directly or indirectly the driving force behind the climb.

I don’t know what is at the top; I’d be lying if I said I did.  But I tend to think that once I reach it, I’ll find that the view from up above is absolutely and literally breathtaking.  That view will show everything, the universe, and even things beyond imagination.  And the accompanying sunset may be the best part of all.  And finally, I’ll be able to pull up to a soft cloud, next to a star as my night light, and fall asleep with the infinite number of those who have made it before me to enjoy the view.