The Climber Parts

The gentle rays of daybreak sneak into my tent through the opened zipper and land across my sleepy eyes. Still in my pajamas, I release the warmth of dreams trapped within my sleeping bag and slide into my sneakers silently, wanting to look at the sun rise alone, not wanting to experience the morning splendor with another.

The day is clear, not a cloud is in sight. I approach the steep cliff looking into the purple horizon, imagining hidden valleys surrounded by trees, unknown towns cradled by mountains, by other peaks I can see in the distance but doubt I will ever climb. I am drawn to the limitless opportunities, to the movement of the leaves on the countless trees that stretch far before me until they touch the sky.

Behind me people open their eyes, yawn while their stretch slumbering limbs into wakefulness. I hear the clacking of a camping pan, the smooth sliding of a sleeping bag being rolled up into its pouch. I do not stir, for I am hypnotized by the day, submerged in a clarity I don’t want to dissipate by moving. For the first time I feel no motivation to continue on the climb to the top of this particular mountain.

My peers pack up and continue their climb, never looking back to check my whereabouts. It is a group climb but each person has her own endeavors, timing and goals. I do not have to climb today at all if I am not inclined.

I cannot rip my eyes away from the horizon. I stand glued, teetering on the edge of a precipice that ends right after my toe tips. The movement of nature, the wind sweeping my hair lifts me, takes me on a limbless journey from this mid-mountain crag across raging rivers, flowering fields, dense forests and quaint towns. The landscape I see, on this one clear day, makes climbing seem pointless. Why would I want to spend my days watching for rocks and roots? What do I hope to achieve by climbing? It is so important to see farther if it’s from a single perspective? How integral is the view from one mountain?

With these questions I feel the climber in me lay down her back pack, trusty utensils, warm sleeping bag and waterproof tent. I turn towards the mountain only to see her smile and disappear down the path, walking into my intercepting shadow, which grows long and dark with the rising sun. I am not sad. I am not afraid. I am not nostalgic for the climber, for she has parted willingly and made way for another me.

As I relinquish my old dreams, trade the suspended and far-reaching goals of a climber I am liberated. I free to just live, experience. Within me awakes the daring infant who spent Saturday mornings playing with German Shepherds barefoot and in pajamas, the tiny girl who rode her troublesome horse bareback, the teenager who approached newcomers and new tasks in triumphant confidence.

Welcome, I say.

Together we take a couple of steps back, turn and jump off the cliff!