The day after Christmas, I found myself sitting across from a screaming toddler on a 14-hour flight to New Zealand. While I plugged in my ear buds and covered my face with an eye mask and blankets, I was definitely questioning why any parent would be crazy enough to bring a child that young on a flight this long. But, I was also bursting with excitement. New Zealand has been at the top of my “places I want to visit but don’t think I’ll ever get the chance” list ever since my dad first described what a hobbit is. Disclaimer: if you don’t know or like “The Lord of the Rings,” I’m sorry for the plethora of references that are peppered into the following paragraphs. (Actually, I’m really not sorry at all. Everyone should see “The Lord of the Rings.”)
We were in New Zealand for seven full days, but we managed to fill our trip to the max with visits to the Sky Tower in Auckland, the set of “The Lord of the Rings” and “The Hobbit” movies in the Shire and a traditional Maori dinner in Rotorua, just to name a few. One activity that has continued to stand out in my mind, though, is the 16-mile hike we did on our last day in Tongariro National Park.
I am not an avid hiker. I don’t even consider myself to be a particularly outdoorsy person. Nevertheless, I panted my way up a never-ending cliff of loose gravel, slid down a narrow stretch of ash up in the clouds and whimpered loudly as my legs threatened to collapse underneath me and rain doused my head for the last six miles. Traversing Mt. Doom was nothing like the 45-minute trip up Humpback, and I didn’t have any motivation to capture New Zealand’s equivalent of Humpback’s artsy sunrise pictures. For the majority of our trek through the Tongariro Crossing, my mind was singularly focused on getting to the end and being finished with this twisted idea of physical fun.
As I complained to my mom about the cold, the rain, the distance and the annoying way she flopped her arms as we made our descent, it struck me how similar climbing Mt. Doom was to the continuous trajectory of my life. Too much symbolism? Maybe, but give me a break: I’m an English major. My fixation on reaching the final destination of the hike definitely reminded me of the way I often focus exclusively on making it to a specific goal. If I could just make it to the end of this hike, then I’d be pleased. If I could just make it to the end of this semester, then I’d be satisfied. If I could just get to this level in this company, then I’d feel successful. If I could just get to that point in my life, then I’d be happy. Final destinations do not harbor the lion’s share of meaningful rewards, and as J.R.R. Tolkien said, “Not all those who wander are lost.”
It was probably the delirium and exhaustion making me think this way, but whatever it was, I realized there’s no sense in making journeys up and down mountain ranges — or through the semester — if I don’t pause to appreciate the gifts and beauty before me, right here, right now. Trekking through it all with positive intentions and an ability to remain present is incredibly difficult and impossible to do all the time, but choosing to take in the small details makes reaching the final destination all the sweeter.
As Ben Rector croons, “Life is not the mountain tops, it’s the walking in between.” I certainly am grateful for small moments when I can feel myself being filled with and enlivened by the grace of miniscule details I may have overlooked. Though my aching body may not have thanked the mountains I climbed, I know the rest of me is indebted to New Zealand for the lessons it gave me.
Mimi’s column runs biweekly Friday. She can be reached at m.robinson@cavalierdaily.com.
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