Some things in life are almost too symbolic to mention. As if the great poet in the sky has scripted a scenario for the express purpose of teaching a lesson. Climbing a mountain is a metaphor for reaching one’s goals, or in my case achieving another benchmark in sobriety.
This morning I am feeling defiant. I don’t want to draw conclusions. I don’t feel particularly triumphant or inclined to make analogies about how far I’ve come now that I don’t drink.
In fact, the beautiful picture above is not the full picture. I did get to the top of the mountain, but it took two tries and two days. And it wasn’t pretty or particularly fun. There was a moment when I shuffled along the dusty road, no cloud cover in bloody, blistering heat when I thought, “How embarrassing, I’m actually not going to make it. Kim will have to drag my carcass to civilization…” I took a tepid pear out of my backpack and chewed it like manna: a desperate attempt to hydrate and raise my plummeting blood sugar and trudged on.
And I made it.
But sometimes climbing a mountain is just climbing a mountain. You put your head down and one foot in front of the other…