I’m trying to wrap my arms around a mountain. Trying to embrace the very things that have hedged me in and hindered my view.
I’m trying to make a circle around these massive jagged stones that hold all the hard things. It’s an enormous rock wall built of small and sedimented stumbling blocks. Layer upon layer, they are like stone pages and tablets. Chronicles. Stories sealed. History petrified. And I know I’m in there. In that mountain. My own hard. My own obstacles. My own story. A lot of things I’d rather just climb over. But I have this notion that there’s something in there for me, if so much of me is in there.
What if it is not just for scaling? Or conquering? Or tossing into the sea? What if it’s intended for something more? Maybe it’s my very own Wailing Wall, and the remnant of promise and protection. Maybe I pray there, cram every plea into the crevices and wait patiently for answers. Maybe it’s for aesthetics, setting a humble stage for unlikely triumph to come. Maybe it’s for throwing myself against, producing muscle and grit with every exertion. Or for clinging to, when everything else is shaking. Maybe I should kiss it, because so much of the struggle is meant as gift. Or just march around it seven times, surrounding it with shouts, in hopes that it will crumble before me. Or what if I strike it? Will water flow? Will the mineral matter erupt with something that really matters?
I don’t actually know. Yet. I just know it’s there, so it must serve some grand plan, well beyond my insight. I don’t believe in waste. Nothing is for nothing. Everything serves something. So I’ll keep my arms open wide and take in as much of the story as I can fathom for now, until it all serves its full purpose. It almost looks like worship.