Strength to Climb a Mountain

Several years ago, I lived in Lausanne, Switzerland at the bottom of what the Swiss called, “a large hill”. Geologists would probably call it the same, but to a Louisiana boy like me, who got winded when walking up a flight of stairs, it was a full-fledge mountain.

Most of the businesses of the town were located at the top, where there were breath-taking views of the Alps, Lake Leman (Geneva), and Evian, France. It was a magical place, where I spent most of my days and longed to live forever.

To get to the top, my options were a ten-minute bus ride or a twenty-five minute uphill walk. For my first few weeks in Lausanne, I opted for the public transportation because it was faster and easier, and the thought of climbing the mountain without sherpas and oxygen tanks made my head hurt.

I didn’t have the strength to walk to the top of Lausanne, because I thought I’d just climbed up my own mountain in New York. I’d written a book, and planted my flag in the ground in hopes of claiming the territory known as Success. But after almost two years from the date I typed, “The End,” on my story, no publisher wanted to hear it. I felt like I was still at base camp in the land of Failure.

I was mentally and financially broke, and had severely damaged my business career by taking the time off to focus on writing. So my friend, Heather, swooped in like a super hero and took me into her Swiss home. I was there to rest, and decide if I would try to continue my climb towards my dreams, or instead find another flatter course.

So I had no interest in climbing to the new mountain to get to the center of Lausanne. Even though I missed the scenery along the way, the bus was fine for me. Walking wasn’t worth the work and sweat, when I could simply relax and be lifted to the top.

But one cold afternoon while I sat at the bus stop, I began to have a change of heart. I was obsessing about my failure as a writer, and had to move before I died creatively right there on that bench. I needed to walk, but to where? I was already at the bottom, and the only place was up.

Then I began to take note of the people passing by me on their way to the top. There were school children riding on bicycles, a mother pushing a stroller and a senior citizen rolling her wheelchair up the steep incline.

Am I that weak? I thought. Is it really better to sit here at the bottom and die rather than sweat a little to get to the top?

“No,” I said standing up. “I can do this. I have to do this.”

So I climbed. Immediately my heart and lungs began pumping like I was jogging, but my steps were only taking me about ten feet every two minutes. I continued though, to prove that I was not defeated, and was stronger than children and an old lady in a wheelchair.

But then the sky turned dark, and snow began to fall to the ground. Not pretty little flakes that children in fairytales wake up to on Christmas morning. But big hard balls of ice that pelted my face like giant spitballs shot through cannons.

I was in a blizzard, and the course of my journey became more confusing and challenging. My feet slipped with each step, and I soon lost hope in reaching the top. My new goal had become to get to the next bus stop.

But then a flash of revolving color appeared like a light at the end of a tunnel. It looked liked a giant candy cane spinning around, but when I got closer, saw that it was a barber’s pole. I was only halfway up the mountain and didn’t really need a haircut, but the thought of sitting in a nice warm room while someone snipped away my ice filled locks, seemed my only reasonable option.

So I entered the barber’s shop with a hope of being saved while the heavy storm covered the town in a blanket of snow. But I hadn’t taken more than a few steps when a new obstacle in the form of a cow-sized poodle ran out from behind a large velvet curtain and barked and growled at me.

A heavy-set man wearing a bizarre smile appeared a few seconds later. The blizzard began to seem more appealing, but before I could step away, the barber sat me down in a chair and lowered the back until my head leaned into a sink. Without any explanation, he disappeared behind the curtain for a minute. When he returned, classical music filled the air and slowly warmed my body like an electric blanket.

He washed my hair with Mozart, but cut it with Beethoven. His hands danced across my locks like those of a conductor leading an orchestra, and on staccato notes, he cut one strand at a time.

I had feared the outcome, but a look in the mirror reflected one of the best haircuts I’d ever received. Then as if on cue, the blizzard stopped and the sun shone down on beautiful Lausanne, and through the barbershop window.

I made my way to the top of the mountain that day, and enjoyed my prize of the picturesque land below me. A week later, I was rewarded again when I received an email from my agent stating that not one, but two publishers wanted to buy my book.

I haven’t climbed my own personal mountain yet, but I’ve made progress. I now know that I am meant to be a writer, and have a clearer idea of my journey. There are times when I encounter other blizzards, and am not sure if I’ll ever reach the top of where I’m heading. But at least now, I know that I am capable of getting somewhere. At least now, I have the strength to enjoy the scenery along the way.