A slow climb

It's been a tough couple days. I try to put on a brave face and work my way through it all, but the fact is, I'm ready to come home. I'm tired of being here. I'm tired of everything being difficult because I'm so far away. Despite the fact that I've heard that Fergie song 12,000 times this summer, I'm no less of a crybaby than I always have been.

Sometimes I just want to curl up in my bed and stay there all day, cozy and relaxed and in my own little world instead of the outside one that I don't want to deal with. But I'm proud to say that I haven't succombed to that. Yesterday, when I was feeling pretty low, what did I decide to do? I climbed up a mountain. We're not talking Everest or anything, but it was good-sized, and the path up (and down) was not easy. It was the middle of the afternoon, hot and bright. There are no trees to speak of in that general region; the main type of vegetation is short, spindly bushes that whistle when the wind blows through them. And the path was dirt, punctuated by rocks, some of them quite large. But the view at the top (and most of the way up) was amazing. Neighboring mountains, egregious SoCal sprawl, Lake Murray, winding freeways - it was worth it. By the time I was done, I was covered in a thin film of dirt, legs definitely sore, but I had such a sense of accomplishment. I did it. I did it myself. I thought, "Hey, I'm going to go climb a mountain," and I went and did it, just like that. I know it might not seem like a huge deal to anyone else; for the record, there were plenty of people significantly older than me who made the same climb I did. And while the physical act of climbing was strenuous, it wasn't the most rewarding part. It was my ability to brush past the day's stresses and hurts and accomplish something on my own. Again, perhaps not something that would win me any medals or even earn me any particular respect, but I did something for me, and that's what matters.