When a Man Meets a Mountain
Meeting the Storyteller
Life sure has a strange way of revising. Often it critiques us in ways we'd rather edit ourselves, but there seems to be no way of changing it. Some catch breaks early on, while others go to the grave wondering where they went wrong. Every story gets told, regardless of how glamorous or glum. Fortunately, unless you take the quick road out, life keeps going on. This story serves to thank myself for being, well me. Nothing has been easy about the past five years of my life. At 20, I got west nile virus, my spine curved, love for fitness waned, and with that, my heart sank. Three friends around committed suicide, and I became curious as well. Who signed me up for this life of self-discovery? Deep down, I loved to sing, dance, give everyone hugs, and be nothing but a friend to all, but something kept me blending with the crowd. Several mental and physical health constructs got in the way of self-expression. I cared what other people thought of me, and this often kept me from singing and dancing; you could say I was living life for others, not myself. Because I acted out from this disingenuous place, it's no wonder I didn't thrive. As a yoga instructor now, I'm quite aware of the energy/aura people carry, and mine was certainly off-putting. Maybe I was justified in my sadness, but there wasn't a whole lot of action aimed at change. Depression had it's way with me, and I was just in survival mode. Enter yoga. In an unlikely place, I found a teacher who would ignite a shift in my heart. At eighteen, I developed an interest for writing, which helped me reflect on the hard times, but yoga gave me inspiration and a calling, a direction. Stevi, as a junior in college, taught me to breath for the first time. Just how I think there's little l and big L, love, I believe there's little b and big B, breathing. My whole life had been taking in oxygen, not Breathing. Stressed out, I'd run toward external stimuli for a release, but I never knew answers could be found internally. She began teaching me that knowledge could arise from others knowledge, but wisdom had to be found on the road to self-discovery. The "woe is me" anthem in my head started to change. Instead of complaining about arriving in this universe without asking, I began asking why I'd arrived here. My christian background really didn't assist me in finding peace. This fear narrative of hell loomed over, and I didn't feel any form of free will. The whole live to die or die to live rhetoric repeated itself over and over, and I had to get away. Yoga connected me to the universe, and ironically, to God, for the first time. You could say a light switch had turned on, but it didn't make me any more accepted. Around campus, I was seen as different. In church, my beliefs made me an outlier. I had become everyone's acquaintance, but nobody's friend. When I took a magnifying glass to analyze the situation, I could see my life had no purpose. Will power comes from falling in love with something, and I had no love. Many things I thought I loved had been stripped away from me, and the chalkboard needed attention again. Years went by, and life felt like nothing but a drag. I thought I was digging a hole that couldn't be climbed out of. College days were nearing a close, and I felt hopeless. Graduating with a general studies degree doesn't guide purpose too well, I found. Funny things is, I was wrong. Summer felt strange for the first time, but my shell was about to be cracked. After applying for numerous jobs without a reply, I stumbled upon coolworks.com. While my friends were sleeping a hangover off at Hangout music festival in Orange Beach, Alabama, I was applying for jobs. They all told me of their "big boy" opportunities they'd found, so I felt a bit sheepish looking for an opportunity here. Little did I know, as coined by David Brooks, life has two mountains to climb, and I had already summited the first one. Society had encouraged me to follow the traditional route, and it did nothing but eat me up. This was not my framework of existence, and Camp Walt Whitman, Piermont, NH, would open my eyes to the second mountain. I was at base camp, ready to climb. Ironically, maybe serendipitously, I became a hiking guide for the summer. Based in the White Mountains, along the Appalachian Trail, Campcraft would facilitate hikes for all campers. Campers, 6-15, would load up for a weekly hike for seven weeks of summer. Mount Moosilauke, Lonesome Lake, with the youngins, The Presidential Range, Mount Washington, Franconia Ridge for those interested in a challenge or an overnight. Each of these hikes left an impression on me. Much of the summer felt like resistance to the life my peers thought I should live, so Whitman's words, "Resist much, obey little," reverberated in my ears as the summer moons waxed and waned. In many ways, I felt like an utter failure being here, but it was my the first step towards my "personal legend." The reigns of my being had been let loose. While "Baseball Song" by Kenny Rogers played over campfire, I acted out the song, singing front in center by the fire, with all of camp around. I caught bass in the lake, ran them into the main office, and a fishing activity came to life weeks later. I'd come to bear the name Mississippi, and I wore it with pride. Different was my tagline, and it was beautiful. Of all the life changing moments experienced over the summer, one reigns supreme: A three day overnight with seven nine-year-olds on the Tuckerman Ravine. By no means had we arrived with perfect timing. The forecast promised rain, and it didn't lie. Tuckerman's, a popular backcountry ski destination, can be skied in June of most years, and this trail is known to be brutal at all times. The fastest wind speed was recorded right here on this trail's peak: Mount Washington, 231 MPH. We were not exempt from this weather in July. After a leisure uphill climb and a nice bowl of NE clam chowder at the summit, the temperature plummeted. Unfortunately for us, we had to brave the weather. The forecast was not looking to trend towards sunny skies. Temperatures plummeted, the wind started howling, and I was miserable. Three miles out from shelter, it was no surprise the kids had a meltdown. For a moment, I panicked, but the pressure made something in me shine. A story-telling light switch turned on, and tears of misery turned to laughter in a moments time. Meesah was born, a fictional critter that can be thanked for eyebrows we have today. I'm working on the copyright, so the whole story won't be shared, but his story captivated the audience of campers. We set a blazing pace back to Hermit Lake Shelters, and by golly it was a changed group. Long into the night, extended stories of Meesah's journey's were told, all because I started acting out of my genuine self: a story teller. The following morning I'd awake to the kids bowing at my sleeping bag, repeating over and over again, "all hail Mees king, all hail Mees king." The story would make it back to camp and take over my time. Every camper wanted to hear the legend of Meesah. After all the years of asking God, or whoever rules over the universe, for directions, I felt a calling. It happened when I finally let go of what the world wanted for me and took off my shackles and chains. I had the key to them all along and made myself captive. This story does not serve to praise this moment for opening a world into a mental or physical utopia. Life is still quite difficult. Some days the stories don't come, but I discovered a gift through stepping off the paved road. Writing may always be a hobby, but I sure have big plans if something hits. Over 500 works have been written since Meesah's birth in 2018, and I don't plan on stopping anytime soon. I've had opportunities to touch lives in spectacular ways because of a commitment to words. I couldn't be more thankful for books that act as guides: The Alchemist, where I learned to explore my personal legend; The Gita, where I've learned to believe in myself; The Celestine Prophecy, where I learned to search for moments of serendipity. Cool to think their visions were birthed from nowhere but a desire to tell a story. Life is still unbelievably tough, as I still battle health problems daily, but there are sweet messages to gather from living a life of purpose. Maybe my stories will always be shared best when spoken. Maybe I'll be a best selling author one day. Apparently only God knows, and I'll leave it to Him to guide. I'll keep living a life in tune with my genuine nature, smiling through the highs and lows. There's a life worth living out there, and you just have to find it. Feel free to give me a call 769-218-7606
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A Hermit Named Mervin
Legend of a hermit lived a little village outside of the Badwood Forest. In recent times, few good things came out of this dainty town. A bad spirit loomed over the few homes and businesses, believed to have been cursed by dark magic back in the civilizations beginnings. Let’s just say the truth got a bit lost in the woods, but magic certainly lived within the swamp. One legend kept people around, and soon you’ll see why. You could say the reward was as good as one of pirate bounty or stumbling on a gold mine, yet you couldn’t seem to find a soul who knew of the reality. Meer speculation loomed around, but the mystery was enough to keep people going. Men were driven to stay here, believing if they found it, their life as well as future generations would be bountiful. Endless money equated with endless power in a town where these two possibilities seemed an impossibility, there was a worthy cause. As the story goes, a guy named Mervin became a hermit after becoming the town's scapegoat. Growing up in the Badwoods, his life was good. Industry was booming in the town of Bitterbrew, as the Balabac River came on the map for production of root wine and beer stemming from seepage in the boggy roots of the swamp. Known to have a quality of euporia and glee when consumed, people fought tooth and nail to get their hands on this magic. Occupants labored day and night to keep up with the demand, but the good times would not last. As greed welled in the heads of undeserving tree tender’s, unsustainable harvesting preceded the trees growing black. Production continued, as the farmers did not have another opportunity for profit in the swamp, but the root no longer provided ethereal qualities to those who consumed it. Demand plummeted, and without answers from Mervin, the only botanist around, someone had to be blamed. Hunched from year in the lab and detested for his inability to solve the dilemma, Mervin was blamed for the change within the trees. Labeled a witch and villain of the town, he decided to flee into the woods with nothing but a cane and a little black book. Anyone who spoke his name was cast away. Down the Balabac they were sent on a shanty boat, and the river was known to consume many who found their fate left to it. Miles away in the darkest part of the vast forest, Mervin found a place he deemed undetectable. Hidden by rock formations all around and a cave system with only a peep of light stemming through, he grew what he needed to live and enjoyed life of solace. His friends were the birds, trees, and animals belonging to the forest. He felt no need for anything more. Never having much of a life, this seemed like paradise. How worthy Mervin stood to receive a blessing, but nothing would make him leave the first place he called home, not even a gift capable of driving a sane mane to insanity. One girl, who never spoke his name out of fear, searched far and wide for Mervin after finding a little black book. Although writing was illegible, Celia could tell someone had written words, and surely the book had been placed in her path for a reason. Her head ached as she attempted to discern the book’s meaning. Celia thought Mervin might have known she was searching for him out of love, so this was left as a map, but what good did an empty map serve? See now, Mervin discovered the serum of the trees still served a powerful purpose after all. As he sat by a fire one day before being expelled, serum spilled onto the pages of the black book in his lap. The black liquid turned clear and vanished into the soaked pages. As he left it by the fire to dry, the pages turned black again, and an uncontrollable smile streaked across his face. What he would need this secretive ink for he did not know, but he had to acknowledge the discovery of this ink as meaningful. Having a similar belief, Celia forcefully turned the pages of the book she saw the hermit leave with on the day he was outcast. Maybe there was a magic word to say, timing of the day, or correct lighting from the sun. She did not know how to unlock this secret, but hope was not gone. Years went on, hairs turned gray, but something continued her desire to press on. And then, she slipped up. A grievous action by the standard of bitterroot was committed. In her unconscious state of dreaming, Celia spoke Mervin’s name. As she pleaded to be released, no mercy was given. Being the first perpetrator in years, Celia was cast into the river without boat. The rapids turned and churned, and tight was the book in her hand. After all, it was all she had, and the belief of Mervin’s goodness too powerfully resonated in her head. It was the dead of winter, and Celia, beaten and bruised had survived the easiest part of the new journey. She had to get warm, and fast. Using her skills developed over all the years searching for Mervin, a fire grew quickly. Moss and twigs made enough kindling to light the damp wood around. The book she had taken such meticulous care for over the years was ruined, Celia feared. Exhaustion caused her to fade into oblivion. The book sat by fire to dry, and soon enough Celia awoke to the awakening of the woods. Embers burned, and Celia’s eyes exploded into excitement. “The fire, the fire! There are the words I’ve been searching for!” A map it was after all. Her hopes were not in vain. For Mervin had been granted a gift unfit for a hermit undesiring wealth or fame. Celia, oh Celia, one day you will find me. The words were a mystery, for they were too dangerous for just anybody. Soo much I’ve wished to go out and find you. I see your love as true, but a hermit I am, fine without anybody. One day I was blessed with a seed from the skies. Wondering what it might be, I analyzed it for quite some time. Unlike another, I put it in the ground. Like the rest, it began to sprout. Year one, only green leaves erupted in the spring, but it grew fast and tall, year two leaves beamed. Yet this time it sprouted, I could not believe my eyes. These were not just leaves. Real money grew before my eyes. Soo badly the desire came to go out and tell the world, but then I remembered how they treated me, and I swore not to tell. Many times, you searched, and I saw another following your tracks. Although I wanted to tell you, I had to speak through dreams. It was not safe to disclose this location, nor will it ever be. Here is a map, by the river I know you found me. See the secret came from within the very thing that dispelled me. The serum served as a secret writing, unlocked through fire. Thank you for believing a connection with me matters. Here I am happy, but so much money has grown. This map will show how to find me, and I know you will use these resources to change the world. Celia believed she had to be dreaming. All along she had not chased the hermit for wealth. Money, she had never known, and she lived by herself. How much money could this possibly be, she thought. Then she let the thought come to pass. She just wanted her moment with the hermit to come, and finally, it could be seen at last. Hidden so well, it’s no wonder so much time passed. Mervin would not be found again without a map. There she stumbled upon the cave. It was as if Mervin knew. He came out from the ground and grinned, no longer hunched and even younger than she had remembered him. His words, written many years in the past, still stood, but the desire for love grew as he saw Celia prance and dance through the woods. After years of singing of them being one together in time, they took their fortune and went out in the night. Legend has it, they ferried and moved to prosperous lands away; Celia and Mervin, money grown from a tree in a cave. The people of Bitterbrew bickered, as Celia sent money to build up her family that remained. Curse of Mervin’s name turned to legend, and one thing still looms around the Badwood forest today. Word of a money tree lives, and indeed it may be found, but only through Mervin, Celia, or the little black book, and they'd vanished as the dreams of this once prosperous, greedy town.
By Daniel Trussell4 years ago in Fiction
Influential Women Magazine Celebrating Purpose-Driven Women
Influence in today’s world is no longer defined by popularity alone. It is shaped by purpose, values, and the ability to create meaningful impact. Women across the globe are leading businesses, movements, and communities with intention and integrity.
By influentialwomenmagazine6 days ago in Motivation
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