Laying it Bare

“Just jump.”

“I can’t. You know I can’t.”

“It is easy; a little hop.”

“Easy for you!”

We are three-quarters of the way up Hancock Mountain, a 4,300-foot peak in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, and we have come to an icy river. The water is cascading down the slope, tumbling over rocks and boulders and splashing them with a quickly-frozen spray. A few days ago, it was a passable stream, but now, due to recent heavy rain, which melted much of the snow up on the summit, it has swollen to a knee-high, frothy torrent. The only way to cross is to hop from one ice-covered rock to another, again and again. And I can’t jump.

I never could. It is a weakness of mine. I blame it on my high school sport of diving, when I could rely on the board’s spring to propel me upward. The ground doesn’t give, but my body acts like it should. My highest leap is just shy of three inches. The cold water is calling to my feet, teasing me with its chortling splashes and bounces, and I know just like the river does, that my feet are going in.

“Come on,” coaxes Twain, my husband. “If Cricket can do it so can you.” I look over at Cricket who is indeed standing on the other side. Her long, black shaggy fur has turned into a coat of icicles, and she stares at me anxiously. Yes, she crossed, but she didn’t stay dry. Regardless, there is no choice; this is the way home. I rock from front to back at the water’s edge, trying to gather momentum, and I leap, perform an ungraceful pirouette between the rocks, and land with a splash in the water. It instantly fills my boots and rises up my pant legs. I scramble to the shore and stand beside Cricket, beginning to match her icicle for icicle.

“What was that?” Twain asks incredulously. He is simply amazed by what a klutz I am.

What it was, was a fall. Something of which I have recently grown quite accustomed in its many variations.

For example, I have been yelling at my children, arguing with my husband about stupid things, and being generally irritable and mopey—falls from my generally upbeat self. I know, I know—I am so lucky and should feel grateful, but the “gratitude thing” never works for me, it just makes me feel badly about myself. It makes me feel ashamed for feeling low, which in turn only makes me feel worse.

It seems like everyone is climbing mountains these days, ones far more difficult than the ones I choose. Teenagers climb through hours of screen time to complete a day of virtual school. The elderly climb through endless days of isolation, trying to maintain a sense of hope. People are climbing through poverty just trying to feed and house their families. Everybody climbing mountains of struggle, and here I am, creating challenge just for the fun of it.

I guess a big reason that I am doing all these adventures is so that I can feel like I am conquering something, during this time that feels akin to swimming in molasses. Plus, these adventures give me endorphins that flood my body just like the river flooded my boots. They are like happiness candy. They also remind me that the world is an incredible place, full of resilience, beauty, and strength.

This time we had to turn back after my icy dunking. We scrambled down the mountain and into the truck, where I whipped off my boots and massaged the blood back into my toes. But next weekend we will try again. I will keep climbing. I hope we all do.