There’s a waterfall (the lower falls) near Bell Canyon Creek that my wife and I hiked to a few years ago. For many years now (we’ve been married 24 and counting) we’ve hiked on our anniversary, and for perhaps the last 10 or so we’ve always tried to find a trail with waterfalls — at least during that time of year. The snowpack had mostly melted by late June, and the trail was welcomingly quiet.
When our feet hit the trail, we weren’t sure where the falls were, just that they were somewhere ahead. On our anniversary, we don’t rush things. Where possible, we walk hand-in-hand, talking and enjoying the fresh mountain air and the views. The hike wasn’t especially difficult (we like the leisure trails), and it was the perfect day for taking things slow. Life has a way of moving at a different speed when you’re enjoying nature.
Eventually, we found the falls. In Bells Canyon, I love that you can hear and feel the falls before you can see them. The mist rising into the summer air gives it a distinct coolness.
When we arrived, we enjoyed the sound of crashing water and the light spray taking the edge off the warm summer morning.
After a few moments of quiet watching and photo ops, we started to explore. As we came out of the shadow of the hills, we noticed butterflies, dozens of them, clinging to the sun-warmed rocks like they were gathering strength for a long journey.
We sat for a long time watching the butterflies and listening to the cascading water. After several minutes, my wife held out her hand, still and open, and a few butterflies fluttered from the rocks right into her waiting palm.
My wife connects with nature the way most people connect with a close friend. That day, she became the butterfly whisperer. I snapped a few pictures. Somehow, that quiet scene has stayed with me longer than most vacations.
I don’t keep many pictures on my phone, but most of the ones I have are of my beautiful wife. This photo, in particular, is captivating.
That hike — the whole experience of it — has been on my mind recently.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the kind of person who likes to know where I stand. It doesn’t matter if it’s a business project or something personal, I like metrics and movement. I suppose it’s like having proof that I’m getting somewhere (though I don’t always know where that somewhere is).
Lately, though, I’ve been questioning whether I’ve been measuring the wrong things.
Because some days, progress looks like skipping the third can of soda (or fifth). Or making the call I’ve been avoiding. Or doing something a little more productive when I’d rather scroll on my phone.
Sometimes, progress looks like walking when I went out for a run.
And sometimes, it doesn’t look like well… anything.
Some days feel like standing still, like I’m on the same stretch of familiar trail I’ve walked a hundred times, no closer to the goal than I was yesterday. But when I really look back, I’m not where I started.
It’s so easy to forget that stillness is not the same thing as failure. Quiet effort counts, and so does rest. So does stopping for water or a snack. So does noticing butterflies on the rocks and welcoming them to land in your open hand.
I’ve helped build businesses. I’m building two more now. I’ve chased more milestones than I could ever track. I’ve even hit a few of them. But I’ve also lost track of myself in the chase more often than not. I’ve mistaken productivity and busyness for purpose. I’ve also confused burnout for effort. Exhaustion, to me, was a sign I was doing “it” right.
The truth is, I’m not sure what kind of life I’m building right now — at least not all the time. I know I want it to feel more genuine to who I am. I want to be more present for my wife and kids. I also want to be more present for my employees and the people we work for.
I want to stop mistaking motion for progress. I want to slow down enough to notice when I’m pushing my own Sisyphus Stone just to prove that I can.
Sometimes — most of the time — when I tell people I quit my job, they immediately want to know what’s next. I usually give them an answer, but it’s almost never tidy. Or professional. The truth is: I don’t really know.
Here’s one thing I know (the real theme of this series): I want to feel like myself again. I want to stop keeping score with numbers that don’t even matter in a game I don’t want to play. I want to build a kind of progress that I don’t have to chase.
If that means walking slowly and deliberately with no big milestones for a while, that’s okay.
Look, some of the best things I’ve found recently were just ahead, even when I wasn’t exactly sure where I was going. All I had to do was look up (a lesson I learned from my dad).
And some of the best progress I’ve made didn’t feel like progress at all — not until much later, when I could finally see where I had been.
No comments:
Post a Comment