Year of the Mountain

  It begins deceptively easy. First you have energy and optimism, unlimited strength for the climb. You think you'll get there fast, but you don't. The path winds around each obstacle. January turns into February, you feel the sting of rejection. There are rocks on the path that impede your progress, mud and snow to stumble over the paralysis of March. Time extends the year like a tape measure. You're sure you're making progress, but the mountains seem more daunting than they did at the start. Until somebody finally wants you in April, but it's feeling easier now, so you take the harder path. You want the perfect view, and only the most dangerous detour offers it.

 When summer rolls around, a mound round of success opens through the trees. You think you've reached the top; every sign of the summit is there within reach. You're tired and you need a break, so you stop to smell the flavors, savoring the promise. But once you reach a crest, the fear consumes you. You're immobile, you can't go forward. The dead heat of August snatches you in place, revealing the summit is much higher than you thought it was. You've already come this far, so you decide to keep pushing.

 It gets more vertical on this part of the path. You need to watch your step or you'll slip over September's edge. Every missed step is a slash to your gut, threatening to toss you over the edge. Bad prospects discourage you, doubt creeps in. A storm breaks over the horn, the rim of catastrophe. The awful sensation of failure crawls incessantly over your skin. Rain pounds on your face, the same questions get asked. Suddenly you make every right move, but you still can't advance. Higher and higher you go, wondering if you descended by mistake. The makeshift clouds are disorienting, neutral in their judgment. The god of thunder asks, do those with talent rise to the top, or those who persevere?

 You realize you should have been more prepared.

 Darkness sets in; there is nowhere to camp. The summit is still out of sight. One last push is all you have, the energy leaking from every muscle as fall settles into winter. You can't believe all the time that has passed, how quickly the months turned into a year. Surrender seems sweet, like it always did in the past. It was comfortable to settle back then. But there is a new spirit in you this time, one that must reach the top, even if it kills you. You dream of letting go, falling far down into the crevice below, yet some kind of angel taps into your reserves above, fermenting your resolve.

 Then the holiday breaks open the clouds, revealing a snowy peak. You give one final push and fall on your back, amazed that the ground is finally flat, the sun is out, an offering has been made. You stand up, taking in the view. You've reached the top, just as you were about to quit. A miracle has been performed, you can't believe it. She was right, it's your turn. You feel emancipated as the crisp alpine wind swaddles your cheeks, saying welcome to eternity. This mountain is only a year, and you have many more to scale. Nothing matches the joy of your first climb, though it reminds you of the moment your first child was born, an avalanche of relief mixed with joy, bringing tears to your eyes.