Tomorrow is the event horizon of our lives. An ever-shifting, ever-receding boundary forever lying before us; swirling with the colour and light provided by the present, but sharply contrasted by the dark of the unknown. Youth inspires the pursuit of this unknown, but as we age the pursuit shifts subtly in opposition to the unyielding pull of the darkness.
These days, my pursuits involve seeking out the heights I have always loved while my knees beg the question of whether I'll make it back down. These days, it is no longer about how high I want to go, but how high can I go.
However, this has not changed the fascination that the hills and mountains hold for me. Mountains are regal in every way that we describe majesty, and by their very existence, they challenge our every limitation. From their heights are offered vistas that no cockpit or passing passenger window can offer, because these sights must be earned. No one who has stood atop Everest would compare what greeted their eyes with what a 747 pilot sees. With all respect to fliers, it's just not the same; even when looking down from the less lofty heights I've managed.
Mountains require us to leave behind comfort; they invite us into the realm of revelation. Their slopes and icy peaks reach up from our fertile civilizations and pierce the thin veil of atmosphere blanketing our earth; revealing by every meter how tenuous our hold on comfort really is. Perhaps this is why the summons of the Divine has so often been to the mountains.
"Come up here!"
The call is clarion. It strikes a chord of excitement that is pulled taut by the opposing ideas of invitation, and the requisite leaving where we are from. From the hill of sacrifice to the triumph at the Mount of Olives, this call rings clear; laying our hearts bare in its wake. Will I answer the call, or will I—as I get older—weigh my response against the possibility of making the return trip?