High on a Hill

‘Look- a windmill.’

“Where? I don’t see it”, he said; disappointment was rising fast. “There’s no windmills out there.”

“Over there, by the tree line. You can see the blades over the tops of the trees.”

“I really don’t see it, the trees are in the way.” And sure enough, as we approached, the closer we were to the tree line, the harder it was to perceive the windmills beyond.

“You’ll see. When we reach that row of trees, the windmill will be clear to see. The closer we get to the object sometimes, the harder it is to see.”

This produced an audible scoff. But even so, moments later we sped past the tree line to finally see – another row of trees. There was still no clear view to the windmill, and the scoff seemed justified.

“You said we would see it when we passed those trees, but all I see now are more trees.”

“I see that too; call it an unexpected barrier. The windmill is still behind those trees, I know it is because I glimpsed it. Sometimes when you pass a big barrier, all you see on the other side is more stuff in the way, and the closer you get to your object, the more barriers form between you and what you seek.”

As if with perfect timing, as I said these words gaps in the row of trees revealed an obscured but distinct vision of a tall white windmill, spinning quickly in the wind.

“And there it is; even when we cannot see the entire picture, as we get closer our object, we may get greater and greater glimpses to the outcome we want. In fact, if our object was simply to prove that the windmill is there, then we have already achieved it. But much like other challenges in our life, we may decide that is enough, or we keep going, tidying up the ambiguity like wiping fog off a mirror.” He seemed to appreciate that, and settled back into his seat, albeit not entirely satisfied. How could he be; a few sage-words from me couldn't solve the whole world, but I hoped it would help a little at least.

"Thanks again for coming with me; I know you would have found something to do back home but I appreciate the company. Neither of us have ever been this far south before. A windmill may not be much, but who knows what else we'll see while we're down here". He didn't respond, and the conversation came to an easy stop. I was still worried he'd be bored right until the moment we got back home, but roughly 20 minutes later he was still gazing out the window, as if he was searching for something to spot next. If I’d ever had doubts’ he was my son, they were gone then; seeing him stare out the window was like looking in a mirror and seeing myself, ten years old and getting lost in the trees and fields of the Earth speeding by.

In this exchange between his present and my past, I carried optimism into my own future in the image of the windmill. Whenever I close my eyes, I can see it - a windmill through a window. Perhaps there are tree branches, or laundry on a line, or a treeline. Perhaps the treeline is made of concrete, or its high up on the far side of a distant hill. One way or another, whether I can see it clearly, obscured or its completely missing – I know that windmill is there. I need to believe that its there, so that I can go towards it, and push to find it, as long as I can. Otherwise, what’s the point? I may be getting older, but from memories like this, I still enjoy the push, and I still get excited spotting something interesting in the distance, high on a hill, waiting for me to spot it. I just hope that, as much as this brings comfort to me, that he can see it too. And if he can’t, than I hope that he can trust he will see it, if he just holds on long enough.