Far, far away, beyond our borders and the scope of our learning, there is a Hill. The “H” is capital because the very presence of the Hill usurps all others; the bumps and undulations of the landscape are sucked in, absorbed into its singular mass with as much choice as twigs in a whirlpool. The Hill is not the jewel in a crown of smaller cousins. It stands alone. Alone, on a dusty plain, where long ago the earth heaved, cracked, burst upward, clambering fit to overtake the stars. Or perhaps, some subterranean shade hurled asunder its cavernous roof, and reared up above the mortal realm in the full gleam of its cave-dark majesty—only to be turned to stone under the Sun’s eye. No one knows. The Hill was here long before we were—it will tower still when we are but dust. The Hill at once inspires and terrorizes; a lonely mountain gleaming like fire in its celestial shower, yet turning one’s guts to ice. So monolithic is the Hill that the rare adventurer to find it simply turns back, unwilling to or incapable of comprehending how small he really is. Such a monstrous concept is better understood gradually, much as a mountain is summited in small sections; the view is cheap and paltry without a preceding climb.
The joining between dust and titan is gentle, almost imperceptible. The ground slowly swells, gaining a doughy softness as would a loaf in the heat of the sun. The slender multitudes of grass on the plain thicken, hardened and hardy from the rock-rich soil. A gentle grade leads the gaze delicately skyward, until the terror of the looming beast snaps eyes ground-ward, to begin the process again. There is nothing about the base of the Hill to inspire awe, or fear, yet it is definitively a different world—the threshold, perhaps, of a different world. The body knows what the mind does not, and whispers its knowledge in the space between every heartbeat. The skin shudders and wraps tighter, as if chilled. The muscles of the neck and shoulders hunch the body down, converting the strong explorer to a penitent, back-broken laborer. Fear, uncertainty, and guilt creep into the ears of the climber, whispering sweet doubts. A sense of judgment and disapproval weigh even the heartiest down, once they begin the climb. How can it not, when clearly they are the trespassers here, and not the Hill? It is here, finally, under an Olympian shadow, that the truth is glimpsed, if not yet fully absorbed. The world was not grandly designed as a playpen and toolbox, to be humanity’s kingdom. Men scuttle from corner to corner of their labyrinth, thinking themselves lord and master; they are fools. We are no more than a shimmer of light across the wild ocean. We change nothing; we create nothing; we are nothing.
The girdle of the Hill is a sanctuary. The prevailing cliffs above merely offer shade, rather than hurling it down with the weight of miles. Stout trees and shrubs flow down the slope, a flood of leafy beasts frozen mid-stampede. Here is the one place where the Hill supports life; goats skip nimbly over the rocks, squirrels fritter and nag, and though no one sees, the hunting cat stalks everything with a jealous hunger. The adventurer is heartened and inspired to continue the climb, though his limbs burn with the effort of movement. It is the comforting burn of life. Cool air pinches, pokes the skin, tugs at clothes, and drags fingers through sweat-damp hair. Come dance with me, it calls, sing with me, play. Play! The breeze is gentle, for now. Even the most seasoned mountaineer could not guess what this zephyr will become, as it climbs higher beside him. Like the rugged explorer, we, as people, will pause here awhile, in this fierce and untended Eden. We will wander its false trails, dine on its myriad fruits, and bathe in its frigid streams. Eventually, we, like the explorer, will wander aimlessly, until we finally swallow, turn, and face the crux of the matter. The cliffs lie above—unconquered, unreachable; daring us to step off of the shoulders of a giant—and scale its face.
The bluff face of the Hill rebuffs the sunlight like the breastplate of an armored god. It is majestic, glorious; epic in the scale of its construction. None of this is visible from the face itself. All a climber sees is dust and the film of his own tears. The only thing he feels is the ripping, excruciating fatigue in his pathetic muscles as they struggle against gravity—that, and the wind. The wind does not merely whip him. It flays him, tears the heat from his body faster than his heart can pump it out. It does not howl into his ear. It screams with a million tortured voices, it invades his soul; it resonates with the shrieking of his tendons as he slips, dangling from a single frail, human arm. Everything in the world, even his own body, is determined to make the climber fall. But even the Hill cannot rise and shake off this parasite. In the end, we are the only ones who can choose to let go.
We are the only ones who can choose to grit our teeth, to swing in and hug the Hill like it was Mother Earth Herself. The only ones that can decide to reach upward, and seize a single fingernail-hold. And we—humanity, the climber, the protagonist—are the only ones that can push. Push, push upward, through storm and bloody hands and arms so weary that even quivering takes too much energy, to grab just one more rock. Just one more step. And another. And another. And another. Until, heart palpitating, teeth chattering, we throw our hands over the lip of the sky, and clamber up.
Nothing can live on the bald pate of the Hill. Not even the climber. But he is not sad. He is not anything. He is just a speck of dust on top of the world—until the dawn breaks. The Sun rears up its head, and gilds the whole world. The whole world. You can see it, from the top of the Hill. The full curve of its beauty is visible, the depths of its heart; the vault of Heaven, open and inviting. As we stand there, on the summit of our accomplishments, and breathe our last, rattling breath—we are small. We understand.