As the Mountain Is

The city's gray concrete separates me from the earth. There is not a single person in this city that I feel a connection to. Our lives are all swept up in routines that aren't our own. In the distance, a single jagged peak looms. My eyes yearn towards the horizon; I wish I could be as the mountain is. My will would be so strong I could tear apart the sky and make a place for myself. My solitary life lying stark against the mundane landscape Reaching further to the heavens but never any closer to God.

At nighttime I set out, the gray streets washed out in the painful white lights of street lamps. The smell of the wild grass and nestled weeds clears my nose of the smog. Crickets and the crunching of dirt greet my ears. Near the beginning of the forest and the base of the mountain lies a wooden shack. In the doorway of the hovel slouches an old man. He looks me up and down with his earthy eyes caged in wrinkles of skin.

“What brings you so far from the city?” said the old man with a cough. “I’ve come to climb the mountain in front of us and look down from the peak.” “I’ve never seen a man more unprepared for something.” I’ve never wanted something more in my life than to see the top of it. “You can't satiate hunger with just your will. And when the trees fade from the mountains, your ambitions alone won't keep your body warm.” My mouth is immobilized by his scorn, but my feet are not; once again I begin to walk.

With each minute, the sun gets brighter, peeking through the needles of the trees, and I feel the sharp mountain air. In a clearing, a solitary tree stands, weathered but still green. Across from the tree and near to me sits a large rock shading a patch of gravel from the summer sun. My legs stiff, unadjusted to the distance, I fall to the ground beside the rock. And as I lay against the stone, all the seasons passed before my eyes. In the fall, two wiry snakes of ivy began crawling up the tree. By winter the tree was gasping for air. By spring the tree was brown, and yet a single brave seed took flight in the wind and was whisked away to the top of the mountain.

He rose from the ground and dusted himself off, ready to continue walking. The further he walked, the thinner the trees, and the harsher the wind. By night, the landscape flattened out, rocky and sprawling. To the side of this false summit lay a brief overhang with a puddle inside. He knelt to drink, scooping the water with his hands. The water bore no reflection even before the ripples he created. Its depth was unknowable, and its inhabitants were hidden. You could fall into it and never stop searching. But mystery serves little to those convinced of destiny. His thirst satiated, he set out once again, winding through the switchbacks.

At daybreak, the top of the mountain was within sight. What seems a jagged peak from afar is but a gravelly plateau when you stand beside it. The plateau was still narrow, and in front of him it jutted out briefly. To the side stood a grizzled and worn tree, beaten to the brink of death by the inhospitable climate. The tree's impossible persistence on the bald summit turned an austere creation into something remarkable.

With a rush of determination, he hastened to the outcrop to breathe in his accomplishment. But his weak body was not prepared for the haste of his spirit, and near to the edge his foot slipped. He careened over the side like a baby bird from the nest, but only this time falling back into the tree. The gnarled branch sprouted a crimson flower from his chest. Pain was not felt.

A small butterfly with wings the shade of amber lands on my limp hand. The sky shatters like glass in the night; my body falls away, and my vision fades to black