The Climb: A Lesson in Gratitude

Something I've been thinking a lot about recently is gratitude and finding contentment in everyday life.

Back in January I went tubing up at a ski resort near my house with a group of people I didn't really know very well. Everyone had their own tight-knit groups, and while they were kind to me, I didn't really feel like I belonged. I was going out of my comfort zone to go to the activity, and while I was there I was a little anxious. Sure, I'm a grown adult, but I have a difficult time making friends, especially in new situations.

It was also cold. You could take two paths to the top of the hill. You could either tug the tube behind you up a steep incline or take the moving walkway. If you took the latter, you would stand still, six feet apart from anyone else, while the conveyor belt slowly pulled you up the hill. It wasn’t exactly conducive for conversations.

Once you got to the top of the hill (regardless of method) you would wait in line and finally have that exhilarating rush of wind, snow, speed, and adrenaline—and then you’d be at the bottom and have to go up all over again.

I stood on that moving walkway, the motor pulling me up little by little to the top of the hill, and I had a moment of mindfulness. If I wanted to, I could go home after the activity and be absolutely miserable. Most of the time was spent getting up the hill, I felt a little left out, it was freezing, I hurt my ankle coming down one of the times and it was throbbing, and the entire drive up the mountain I was worried for my life because of the way the driver was taking the roads. I could have thought it was a waste of time, felt sorry for myself, and talked myself out of having any kind of fun.

The conveyor belt was still moving, inch by inch towards the top. I still had halfway to go. I stood there and thought about how this was what it felt like to be human. The air nipping at my cheeks told me that this was what it meant to be cold. And the night sky with all its stars was what it meant to be beneath the vase universe and feel small. I always like the feeling of being small in comparison to the grandness of the world.

I was also feeling what loneliness was.

On the way back (in a different car with a different driver) I had a minute to ponder on the experience. What stuck out to me the most was how much that experience was just an analogy for life.

Most of the time you are climbing a hill. Most of the time you are waiting on a platform to get to the top. And when you're on the top there are great views and there's exhilaration and excitement. Whether that's because you've made it to a vacation or you've gotten the promotion or you've launched a book. You've made it!

But then you're at the bottom again. And you have to make your way up to the top. And you *haven't* made it again because the goal's changed. Even if it's the same hill, it's slightly different. More footprints. More snow. And while you could grumble and complain and feel sorry for yourself as you trudged back up that hill again, by the end of your life, you'd find that most of the time we are in the in-between. We are on our way back up.

That moment, standing there, making very little progress to the top of the hill, I could choose whether this experience was going to be a good one or a bad one. I had the choice to find beauty in the mundane moments and find joy in the journey. I could choose to be grateful for feeling cold and lonely and exhilarated all at the same time.

I’m sure tons of gurus and experts have said the same thing. Even Miley Cyrus said it. But I’m going to say it again. We are so focused on getting to the top, that we miss the little moments that make us feel alive. That this moment is what it feels like to be human and to experience waiting. To experience the climb.

So much of my life has felt anticlimactic. Graduations, book launches, all these big events that you think ought to feel a certain way and then they don’t. But most of life is the every day moments. The little, in-between things that you might not remember in ten years, but make all the difference.

Not the rollercoasters, not the achievements, not the graduations or parties. Just gratitude for being.