So Damn Difficult!

Do you ever feel like the things you want to do in life-- whether because you need to or you want to -- are just too difficult it makes you question why you keep trying?

Escape

Last week I took a weekend trip with a friend to Bozeman, Montana. I had never been to Bozeman, it's only 6 hours away from where I live, and as a school teacher facing the beginning of the school year I wanted to get away before my time was completely consumed by pubescent teenagers.

On the Mountain

I looked up different hiking options to explore while in the area and settled on one I found through Google Trips called Fairy Lake. It's an Alpine Lake fairly close to town, about 45 minutes away, that can be reached by car OR a 2.5 mile hike from a lower parking lot (5 mile total there and back). Having lived near trails since I could walk, 2.5 miles up didn't seem too difficult...

My friend and I strolled up and down the switch backs through the kind of beautiful only nature can offer. As we continued on the hike, I had to stop on more than one occasion to catch my breath; it was frustrating to me to amble so, having been diagnosed with asthma sometime around Kindergarten. My hiking companion was just fine to tread along, and though she understands my slowness, I was frustrated nonetheless with the performance of my lungs.

After stopping for the 4th or 5th time, I blamed myself, "Why does everything I want to do have to be so damn difficult?" I want to be in the mountains, in nature. I want to be actively involved in the world around me, but sometimes it just hurts. "Crap copper package," I muttered to myself as I soldiered on, one step at a time, knowing that I was close to the lake. I can do difficult things! Pull it together Amy!

Then the Thunder Came.

And the hail. And the rain. And eventually the lightning. We were .5 miles away, trying to decide the best course of action. We were so close! We settled that if we saw lightning again we would turn around no questions asked and head back to the car. After all, we could drive up to the lake. Of course--- we saw lightning again; the hail, though it had stopped at some point, picked up again and resumed its artillery. So we turned around.... so close to our destination. "Better to error on the side of caution," we said.

Hiking down wasn't so difficult. Why is it that hiking down is easier than hiking up?

But I was feeling bitter my lungs suffered without the triumph of arriving at Fairy Lake, and as I attempted to reassure myself that it's always worth it -- to do difficult things and it builds muscle and all that jazz -- I fell.

The trail had turned to instant oatmeal, just add water. I couldn't take one step without sinking and slipping and sliding and I fell.

Falling hurt.

But I got back up.

I saw two cuts, one in each palm of my hand, and as the rain snaked its way down the cracks of the mountain trail, blood carved its own path down my right leg. The hail continued and so did I, what other choice did I have?

Ten or fifteen minutes later, I fell again. I landed on the same spot, on the same leg.

Why does everything have to be so damn difficult???

More blood. More mud. More frustration. More steps down the mountain. What other choice did I have?

Eventually, the muddy slip and slide deposited us at the car. My friend noted, "Dude. Most people look like you do right now after they pay to run a mud race."

Because some little voice that morning said "maybe throw in those baby wipes you randomly packed," I had some way of cleaning the wounds. Chacos ended up in the cooler in an attempt to not make the lucky Enterprise car rental employee curse my family for generations to come as he scraped mud off for the next paying adventurer, and I wrapped a hammock around me (imagine I thought I would be able to set up a hammock and relax a little - ha) and we drove back to town. We didn't make it to the lake. The dirt road had evolved into a steeper muddy slip and slide and we didn't trust the car to make it.

What's the point of all of this?

I ask myself that same question regularly.

Why is everything I want to do so damn difficult?

Two years ago I was talked into purchasing a mountain bike. It finishes me. every. time.

Last October I got talked into purchasing a membership to a local rock climbing gym. It finishes me. every. time.

*I'm not always so easily talked into spending money, though evidence here shows otherwise*

Hiking. Lucky me it's free, but same thing. It finishes me. every. time.

It's discouraging to have so many things I want to do be so difficult to do -- meanwhile --- homie down the street has a perfectly proper pair of lungs and limbs and does diddly squat.

So why keep trying?

Because life is one big cliché . As my friends from Disney's UP! say, "Adventure is out there!" And how can I "adventure" if I don't go "out there?" By definition adventure means, "an unusual and exciting, typically hazardous, experience or activity... especially for the exploration of unknown territory." Sounds like life to me. Unusual. Yes. Exciting. Sometimes. Typically hazardous. You betcha (you trust every day that a total stranger is going to obey traffic laws). As we explore unknown territory, both figuratively and literally, we discover ourselves. We discover we can do things we didn't think we could do. We discover how we react in certain situations. We discover strength. We discover weakness. We discover how and why and where we fit in the world.

I conclude with a thought.

About a month and a half prior to this hike, I endoed (flipped completely over the handle bars) on my mountain bike (a story for another time). When my dad saw how cut and scraped up I was and after I laid out the scene the very day it happened, he responded, "Well Amy... I guess you could spend the rest of your life sitting in that rocking chair over there... that could be safer... but even then at some point it would probably give out on you and you'd end up hurt somehow."

Why is life so damn difficult sometimes? Because it's life and it comes with its own kind of warning label. How can we live life if we don't live? As much as I detest difficulties in the moment, when I examine experiences later I am, more often than not, grateful they happened to me. A friend once said to me she was struck by the phrase, "He lived" in reference to Jesus Christ. She said that it struck her it wasn't just about his physical presence on the earth, but that he LIVED in the moments that came to Him. He was present. He was engaged. He was active. I want to reach the end of my life, whenever that is, and be able to say that I LIVED: the good, the bad, the ugly. I lived it all and it was beautifully messy.

-Amy

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