A Mountain Of

Dante called it Purgatorio.

Thomas Merton named it Seven Storey Mountain.

I have neither their elegance nor intellect, and so I think of it as a staircase.

My staircase of loss began almost with the arrival of 2020.

I had barely stepped off the plane after a visit to my California family, when the rumblings of contagion began.

They seemed distant and afar, and the words “Not to worry,” were muttered by one and all.

Then as the crescendo grew louder, we took the first step on the staircase.

Warned to isolate, thus we did. Not too difficult, most of us were accustomed to doing that to some degree during winter weeks.

Then the warnings grew louder as we heard numbers, of victims dropping by the wayside from this invisible assailant.

Slowly but with precision, medical, dental and yes, less imperative appointments were crossed off our schedules and postponed. We climbed the second step of the staircase.

Soon visitors were no longer allowed. A temporary situation, but one that would soon revert to normalcy we hoped. Quickly we learned this was not merely the immediate forecast and climbed the third step of our ascent.

Within the next few weeks mealtime with others, friends or foes, was no longer an option. A necessary precaution, admittedly as another step was taken on the steep staircase.

Reluctantly we gazed at each other from the prescribed distance, and saw changes. Hair was no longer styled with precision nor beards trimmed. Gazing in our own mirrors, we were forced to admit reality. Another step had been taken without being noticed.

Sometimes the steps are slippery, and I fear falling. There is no longer another hand to keep me upright, or is there? Instantly, I become acutely aware, I am not alone on this perilous journey.

While each aspect of ascent has been accompanied by loss, it has been achieved with aid. The unexpected unfailing power of love not always recognized is ever there. The invisible hand that always kept me from collapsing will permit me to reach the top of my own personal mountain in 2020.

As my ascent continues, seemingly without an end in sight, I find I can no longer carry things once believed important. I realize anger is far too heavy and must be abandoned. Not only mine, but the packages I carry for others; strident voices on the TV and internet, must also drop by the wayside. My climb is too steep for other’s burdens or animosities. They must be relinquished if I am to succeed in reaching the pimnacle.

I am beginning to see a faint glow and I hope we are near the top. No longer do I look back and hope to reclaim yesterday. I fear it has gone forever. I must now rejoice in the hope for the end of our climb and the possibility of tomorrow.