Climb the Hill
It’s Wednesday morning.
It’s already bright, in the way that the sun turns up the contrast on everything.
The wind is moving pretty quickly already, making that parachute-moving-in-the-wind noise with your pants that are made out of that fancy outdoors-y material.
Incalculable grains of the sand that you’re walking on are already making their home on every exposed surface of your skin.
You are walking in the desert.
You’ve got a long journey ahead of you. You don’t know how long. No one can tell you. You just know you’ve got to make this journey and you’ve already been on it for years.
But, today, you need something important. Today, it feels more important than water.
Looking ahead, you see a hill. You know you can’t miss this opportunity. You must…
Climb the hill.
You make your way, your leg muscles sore from fighting with the sandy earth that attempts to eat your feet every step of the way.
You make it to the base…
You trudge your way up… it’s never easy climbing hills. It takes extra energy and calories that you could spend elsewhere. But you know how important this is.
You make it to the top, allow your eyes to adjust, and begin looking around.
There, in the direction you came from, you can see things. Way out into the distance…
You must have dropped those things years ago.
In the confusion of days, weeks, months, and years of steps without a break, you dropped things that were, at least at a time, important to you. Things that you wanted to pursue, to learn, to enjoy. And now you can see them, way out there in the distance.
You remember them now with a renewed interest.
Turning now, you see to your right and your left… people. Other people. People you know and you love, at least in theory. You see them, walking slowly, trudging through the sand, some carrying a lot of things, some carrying less.
You just stay there, watching them make their journey. In the struggle of your journey, you forgot about them. You forgot that they also were making the difficult journey.
But in this moment, you realize something that feels surprisingly new. If you were to travel over to those few people that mean the most to you, you could help each other as you continue forward through the unknown — battling the wind storms, the melting sun, the continental distance between oases.
Now, you turn to, once again, face forward. You see something, kind of… You squint. You inch forward. Shapes begin to radiate, revealing the outlines of people. After a few moments… a funeral service is revealed.
You don’t know how, or why, but you know it’s yours.
You stare at the odd scene, a bit too much for your heart to take in. And as you watch, you’re presented with your journey’s destination. You’ve been so caught up in survival, that you’ve dropped things, even years ago, that you loved and cared about and you’ve forgotten about the people, spread all around you, lost in the sand storms of your own problems.
You take a few more minutes to consider that final scene.
You look up and see the sun slowly inching its way to its own, daily, funeral.
You pack up your things and find yourself with a new purpose.
You plan to head out and find the things that you left behind. You’re a bit less worried at the moment about the whole water-sand-food-sun thing.
You look to the west, where those especially special people are making their journey. At the very top of your lungs, you yell:
They stop, raising their hands to block the constant wind-streams of sand, and they wave to you, your body’s outline rising high above the desert floor.
After picking up your things, and with a smile on your face, you race down the hill, running to the west, making your way toward them.
You stop about half way. Looking back, you see the hill. You give it a big sandy, desert thank you. With your new peaceful clarity, you know that you will need to climb it and receive its gift again… even soon.
I quit coffee. Buy me a tea?
This is my daily project where I write about diverse ideas (previous ‘Doses’ here).
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