One week ago, I embarked on an adventure I never thought I could or would undertake: climbing a mountain.
It’s too much work.
I’ll freeze to death.
I don’t have time to train.
I’m not strong enough.
Ron did it, and Ron didn’t like it, and I probably won’t like it either.
There’s nothing up there to see anyway.
These are the thoughts I usually had at the mention of mountain climbing.
Then this spring, I received a personal invitation to climb Mount Adams in support of Mountain Owl, a new northwest nonprofit. I felt a sense of wonder, and a rising, “Yes!”
I said yes.
Deep down, it was something I’d always wanted to experience. My fears on the surface, however, had convinced me for a long time not to try.
As I prepared for the adventure, objections and fears returned. I noticed them. But I didn’t let them run the show. I had to continue to check in with that deeper part of me who is unlimited, who is unafraid.
In this way, climbing a mountain is meditation or prayer or dancing. Or public speaking or painting or singing. Intrusions and doubts swirl like mists obscuring a mountaintop. We learn they won’t last forever. We keep going.
And climbing a mountain is telling someone we love them. If we expect too much risk or effort, we let this override our deep-down desire to show up in the world.
And climbing a mountain is writing.
When we check in with what we truly want to say, we find a yes that outshines all the fear.
One week ago, I climbed a mountain. I didn’t think I could do it; but then I allowed a new thought. And my idea of what was possible lifted 12,000 feet into the clouds.
