think.

“There have been joys too great to be described in words, and there have been griefs upon which I have not dared to dwell; and with these in mind I say: Climb if you will, but remember that courage and strength are naught without prudence… Do nothing in haste; look well to each step; and from the beginning think what may be the end.” –Edward Whymper, Scrambles Amongst the Alps

How does one recover from the realization—slow or sudden—that the dreams of the soul, though wild and great, were too eloquent? Most face this wound of realism. If not in the failures and unplanned turns of life, then in the suddenness of death. I was to do more. Be more. And oh, how faint this footprint next to the depths of my supposing.

Is there any true peace in our ever meager existences?

If we are good we roam the woods and explore religions in search of it. If we are great we rule the cities, running from it. If we are selfish we defy it. And if we love well we often feel it. Though rare is the heart still enough to abide within it.

My life seems so very long to my naïve senses, but has been short thus far. I know little and have done even less. I am made un-revolutionary simply in being—nearly nonexistent are the chances that I will have an original thought in my entire lifetime. Any grand plans I concoct or epiphanies I document will have already made a show of it in one of the centuries, if not in all of them. I am almost certainly doomed to irrelevance on this earth. They say, “Make a mark” just to help me feel better I guess. As though the odds were in my favor.

So might I at least be granted some peace in my handful of years? A little joy to curb the disappointment of imitation? Perhaps a reasonable serving of love to make the journey worth laughing along?

Yet chaos and loneliness are mine in cycles so long as I roam here. The peace is a reaction—a digging into a foundation rooted on other shores. And one day, Lord help me, I will arrive there, freed at last from the perseverance required of my peace-seeking kind. Yet it is a celebratory event which I must, at times, discipline myself to anticipate.

Because I love the fight. Don’t we all? History sighs, “thank God, they admit it.” Yes, we do.

If we fight for the love, the joy—it is sweeter. And if we crawl up a mountain to get at the peace maybe the more is ours to have. Surely so, we settle on. Seems logical. Then we’re off. If we’re not careful, a whole life flits away—climbing perpetually. Not to say, do not climb. Just to say, think. Pause. Reconsider perhaps. As if there weren’t enough sad dead to call to us in cautioning.

What is the end, peace-searcher? Do we see distant shores or do we scramble up without prudence? Who do we bring along on the good journey? And who have we slighted or ruined in the bad? Don’t fool yourself. The love, joy, even the peace, are temporarily re-creatable. But man, I promise you, cannot abide within such falsehoods. He can merely hide behind them.

Recovery seems to come with the acceptance that laughs. When we say, “alright, me, you were a little too ambitious.” It doesn’t have to end the journey, it just makes it doable.

Look well to each step. Think.