When the path begins to ascend
I was carrying too much stuff: books and a computer, as if I might write my next blog post atop the hill. But of course it was foggy and cold, and I barely scrawled a few sentences in my journal before stashing my backpack and setting off to run. I didn’t have much to write much anyways. My mind felt uncharacteristically blank, like the foggy landscape around me. I also forgot my headphones and was glad for the opportunity for a quiet run.
I saw the ocean far below, and I wasn’t sure how far down my trail would go but I worried about a steep ascent on the way back.
I soon came to a crossroads: “1.7 miles to the Green Gulch Farm Zen Center.” How strange for this business to have made it onto the regional park signage system, I thought. I was intrigued. I imagined myself arriving at a beautiful monastery with the door slightly ajar, a receptionist inside welcoming me to join the others on seated cushions. I headed that way, thinking “I hope this detour doesn’t add further elevation to my run.”
I reasoned that there were two outcomes: the detour could take me farther below my original route, thus extending my ascent, or it could act as merely a stop on the way down.
When I got to the zen center there was no receptionist and no group to join, just a quaint little dilapidated farm, so I continued onwards.
Upon leaving my path turned up the hill, indicating that my fears were confirmed — I had dropped below my original path and extended my ascent. I felt a flash of disappointment.
…
But that reaction makes no sense, right? Didn’t I want to conserve my energy? And leaving the zen center, wasn’t the best case scenario to begin ascending immediately towards home, not to continue further downwards? Why then was I disappointed?
I kept thinking about how strange my reaction had been. There must be some mindset, I thought, which would not be disappointed when the path began to ascend, and rather would be glad to learn I was able to make my way back as quickly as possible.
