"If I could just get under the 30-mile mark," the taunting thought repeated itself like the circuitous motion of the chain beneath me.
I pedaled on, forgetting that thought, and as time passed, I found myself with around 25 miles left until the landing campground for the night. "If I could just get under the 20-mile mark," my tired, out of practice legs communicated to my brain. 20 miles came and went, and as the repetitive pattern continued, all I longed for was what was next, the next significant mile-marker diminishing the space between me and my point of arrival. A lifelong friend joined me on a 5-day bike tour through the Texas Hill Country. Day 1 was a 47-mile ride from northeast San Antonio to Kerrville. Several months had passed since my last bike tour, so the mental and physical stamina needed to enjoy the journey was nearly absent on this first day. Laying in the hammock that night, weightless legs reminding me of the 47-miles behind me and it dawned on me that I had arrived at the planned destination. There was no clear finish line, no one waiting on the sidelines, screaming and cheering me through the final stretch, no award or sense of accomplishment, just a simple awareness that I made it to the place I planned to sleep that night. The entire ride, I craved what came next, an arbitrary number of miles left to make me feel closer to my arrival point. Each milestone completed was like a hill passover, only to dip into the valley facing the next hill up ahead. It came and went, just like the arrival, a made-up place, unnoticed when finally reached. I'm always thinking about what's next, planning the next big adventure, applying for future opportunities, setting my hopes on what is to come. Maybe this tendency is exacerbated by my Enneagram Type 7 personality, chasing the future to avoid the pain of the present, but maybe the foundation is a misguided belief that if I work hard enough and plan accordingly, life will lead to a significant place of arrival. The latter thought, once regarded as a dependable strategy in life's game theory, has recently proven itself as a deceptive trap. As a junior athlete, suppressing a social life and dedicating full focus to physical performance, the main driving force was to play Division 1 college tennis on a full-scholarship. I arrived there, greeted the opportunity with genuine happiness, and eventually moved on like a life of the past. Now, as a young adult, I've dreamed of nothing more than to be a paid writer, telling significant stories and having a professional publication platform. I recently received this opportunity, and swiftly assumed the role, hardly recognizing the longing and anguish it took to stand here. If, in the last ten years, you ever asked me my "dream job," I might of told you that I wanted to be the next Anthony Bourdain. He had everything I thought I wanted. He was paid to travel around the world, immersing himself in the stories of diverse cultures, sitting down with renowned chefs and average citizens. He dared to ask hard questions in a cool, comfortable way. He built relationships across the world, making friends with the subjects of his story. He feasted on anything from "the local stew, the humble taqueria's mystery meat," to "the sincerely offered gift of a lightly grilled fish head." (1) He made each person feel a part of the story, because in a way, he was telling the story of all of us. When he died, this idea of a dream job, or a dream arrival point of any sort, died within me. How could one seem to have it all choose to leave this world behind of his own volition? He had reached every significant "next" I could ever think of, the people, the places, the conversations, weren't those experiences fulfilling? Or was he just passing through the hills and valleys, never quite finding that mountain-top arrival point? I could never presume to know the intricacies of Bourdain's magnificently-seeming life, but in a moment, I became aware of my own idolatry of Earth's perceived peak. I'll never forget a conversation I had with Apollo Missions Astronaut, Charlie Duke, one of 12 human beings to walk on the moon. A tiny fraction of mankind will stand where he stood, will see the blackness of space from his perspective and witness the orbit of earth from an external viewpoint. In every way, I could point my finger at this man, and say, there is someone who has arrived. "I reached the top of my career, I was only 36-years old when I reached the moon," Duke said. Then the thought occurred to him, "What are you going to do now with the rest of your career?" "A lot of astronauts struggle with this, especially the moonwalkers." Any wild adventure man could dream of, Duke topped them all. Any far off place man could seek to travel, he reached the furthest. Any career goal man could strive for, Duke broke the ceiling. "That drive that took me to the moon was still there. Where am I going to channel this work-ethic now?" Duke recalled wandering. "What's next?" What's next. He reached the moon, literally, and though any next step would seemingly pale in comparison, he was left wandering what else life has to offer. Though both Duke and Bourdain are highly achieved, in a way, their stories are stories of failure. The kind of failure that every single human being faces, the empty, insignificance of life on Earth. Like a page straight out of Ecclesiastes, where man has "seen everything that is done under the sun, and behold, all is 'vanity' and a striving after the wind." (Ecc. 1:14) Duke reached the moon and it was not enough. Something was still missing. "Many are looking for a reason for living that will plumb the depths of our passions and sustain us until we breathe our last," Pastor, David Fairchild writes. And for most of my life, I have chased this thing, crossing the "next" goal off my list, blissfully moving forward to an arbitrary place of arrival. But that mountain really never peaks. It only offers a window into more hills and valleys up ahead. I've never been the "evangelist" type. But I have been severely moved by the sobering reality of life's emptiness. There has to be something more. Something more than the toilsome striving for success, the building up for life's next big adventure and the fostering of momentary happiness. I was waiting for Charlie Duke to tell me that being space-bound and witnessing unexplainable beauty was the source of his passion. But I was humbled when he openly told me that after his moonwalk, his life crumbled. His marriage was failing, his family was falling apart, money-making ventures offered an unsatisfying void. It was not until finding the Creator behind the creation he once explored, did he finally find a peace that lasted. Life's moments, both big and small, had meaning. He was satisfied. Not in what he had created, not in where he had been, not in anything he witnessed on Earth or in outer space. But from something within, someone within, a power beyond this visible world. "All are from the dust, and to dust all return." (Ecc. 3:20) Who knows where we will arrive, whether it's down into the earth or somewhere upward. Yet, we are so focused on striving towards this uncertain place, looking for the next mile-marker to show we've made progress, to diminish the space between us and this unforeseen arrival point. Our weary mind schemes ahead while our heart whispers for us to slow down, to find that internal peace that provides stamina for the hills and valleys up ahead. "I think each of us has this thing inside, a purpose, and God has put that purpose there... and that's where peace comes, and joy," Duke said, "And when you face these setbacks and hard times, you have these foundations that are solid, and your life doesn't crumble." I have a feeling that this purpose is not a job promotion, a backpacking trip through Europe or even the family and friends we create here on Earth. And perhaps, it's not even in our future eternal destination. I have a feeling that purpose is somewhere in those sometimes agonizing miles between point A and point B, the here and now, the seemingly insignificant moments that are begging to be fully seen. ::: (1) Kitchen Confidential, Adventures in the Culinary Underbelly, by Anthony Bourdain Podcast Episode with Charlie Duke
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AuthorKatie Elizabeth: Writer, Wonderer, Wanderer. Archives
April 2022
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