the top of the mountains

 i grew up in a dry valley surrounded by mountains. Endless fields of corn and alfalfa stretched for miles until they reached the foot of the peaks.

The contrast was sublime. Most days in my childhood, I would spend every waking moment in those mountains — legs wrapped tightly against a horse, feet in the stirrups, and hands gripping the reigns. This taught me how to trust, trust that at the end of a long days work, that my feet would touch the Earth again. As my tiny body swooped down from the horses back, the soles of my feet stinging as they connected with the dirt, I was reminded how connected I was to the rest of the vibration that I saw and felt and tasted and heard and smelled when the aspen trees would change colors in the fall, igniting the entire mesa on fire. 

This is where I found myself, up there in the mountains, riding for hours-miles-days even, as the sun moved up my face and over my head. We would break for lunch, and the stillness, quietness was both startling and comforting at the same time. I didn’t wonder about the rest of the world — I fully believed that the entirety of it was in my lap (a canteen of water and a pack of sardines with crackers.) This simplicity is something I ache for now. I dream of riding my horse through the vastness of the mountains. Up there, my worries were few. I was just another one of the leaves blowing in the wind, the specs of dirt, the drops of water in the river. Perhaps there were some pesky mosquitos or the occasional blistering sun burn, but nothing that didn’t remind you that you were matter-of-fact as alive as everything else.

The way the mountains would change through the seasons — from snow-topped and jagged to green and flourishing, soft and blurred in the distance, always helped remind me that there was so much more beyond those big, frighteningly beautiful mountains. It left me with a hunger to climb — to see how far I could make it while I was still gifted with this breathe. 

The same has held true with learning. Ever since I picked up my first book, I never wanted to stop questioning, thinking, pondering, challenging, and just philosophizing about what IS.

That question — What IS — burns on the tip of my tongue and dangles in the back of my mind at all hours, minutes, seconds of the day. There is so much to wonder about: 

What is the meaning of life, or is there any meaning at all?

What is the meaning of love, and is it something that is best left undefined? 

What is my purpose, and could it perhaps be to simply exist? 

What happens when we stop breathing, you & I, when we die? 

I cannot stop asking why, and this is what I will do until I die. If no one else attempts to climb the mountains, I will try to do it for them. Because while it might be mice to sit comfortably at the bottom and piddle one’s thumbs, the view at top will help you answer your why. It might terrify you, astound you, shake you to your core, but you will feel what it means to be truly aware of how small you are. 

Life is meant to be uncomfortable and consist of suffering, but if we can find a sense of calm; if we can find our breath, then this discomfort will transform into something so meaningful. Our suffering will turn into our purpose unraveling before our eyes. In the Greek philosophy, this is known as our “telos,” full potential/ inherent purpose. It might be temporarily comfortable to avoid suffering and resist pain, but this, my friend, is simply existing. 

A life full of pleasure and avoidance is one wasted. We are meant to feel it all. 

We must feel our hearts beating out of our chest, our lungs pulsating and struggling, our muscles straining to get up that mountain to know that we truly lived.