Last year, my husband and I bought hiking boots. Sturdy, cushioned, waterproof insulators. We were anticipating the actualization of a long-envisioned trek up one of our mountains – a mountain I can see from my balcony. Beyond my flagging geraniums and the eucalyptic treetops, he always looms. I write “he” because the mountain’s surface always appears hard, seemingly bare at the distance, its character taunting me to attempt to conquer him.
Of course, the hike up his side is not that rugged. The challenge lays more with logistics – childcare must be procured, a vehicle tough enough to survive deep potholes need be found, and – most difficult – a day off work must be reserved. With three jobs between us, besides the daily task of keeping three children alive until bed-time, the scheduling feat seemed more ominous than the challenging mountain’s jeer.
Still, the purchase of these beautiful, durable boots presented proof of our determination.
Each day follows its course.
My boots do carry me through many trails. They traverse various hillside and mountain paths. Sloshing through puddles beneath a waterfall, they keep my ankles firm and the hands on my toddler steady. Their rocking motion makes our wilderness escapes easier to manage.
Yet, here’s the thing about boots. They don’t always break in the way you expect. This little spot on my pinkie toe always gets rubbed a bit raw. Even allowing the essential space in front, I find the tips of my toes get slammed now and then running downhill. My boots provide support and stability in extra ways I failed to foresee; still, the boots poke and pressure too in places unimagined.
The heart, too, reflects the twists each day demands, the unsanctioned tasks of my weeks, surprises of many months, and hidden crosses and calls across the years.
Life never fits the way I planned.
You know, I don’t think it’s supposed to. Still, I forget.
The he-mountain’s not yet conquered. In truth, a recent wildfire has damaged the trails, making my goal of defeating it all the more distant.
Can I admit that it’s okay? Even enjoy the mountain’s beauty and recognize its taunt as a thought only of my making?
I still love my boots, though the designer’s purpose be fulfilled and not my own.
