Oh so fluffy

I was listening to a song on the radio today that went something like, "Dum, dum dumdumdum dum, gotta get through the valleys, dum dum, before you can climb the mountains, dumdummitydumdum etc, etc." You get the picture. And I started thinking, all right, that's all well and good. I get the sentiment. But what if you like the valleys? What if the valleys are beautiful and safe, with the low mist hanging on the rivers in the morning and lines of trees dividing the fields like moon-silvered sentinels? What if the valleys are comfortable and quiet, and peaceful?

Of course, I love the mountains the most. I love standing at the top of the world with the wind whipping around me, daring me to step off, daring me to fly. I love the danger, and the challenge, and even the climb, muscles straining and breath forced into lungs that ache and burn. It's hard, but you grow in the hard times. Sometimes the mountains are tricky and other times they are dangerous, but they are always interesting.

So I started thinking, okay, I know where my own mountains and valleys are. And I like them both. So where's the fear that trickles down your spine when you read about the valley of the shadow of death? The valleys are a sanctuary. Where's the fear for me?

Ask that misbegotten question, and you'll always get an answer. Mine was, fog.

I was in the Hulsey Wellness Center's steam room the other day. I stepped in the door and was instantly enveloped in whiteness, so thick I could barely see my hand stretched out at arm's length, trying to find the bench. I sat down, and I was in there for several moments before a figure rose off the seat at the other end and walked out. I hadn't seen her, hadn't heard her, didn't know she was there at all. I couldn't see. I HATE that.

My mind correlated that with the whole mountains-and-valleys question. It doesn't matter what point I'm at, in my life. I can be on a hard trail upwards, or walking beside a valley lake, or even on the summit where the rocks kiss the sky. But if there's fog, and I can't see--that's my valley. That's my very-very-unhappy place. It's a blind stepping forward and the startling coalescing of shapes in the corner of your eyes, and ghosts that appears and then vanish before you're sure they are there. If there is fog, I am lost. At least until it clears and I can be sure of where I am.

I did have a point to this monologue. Not to make obscure hints about my fears, which are already discussed far too much. Or to wax eloquent about life's basic metaphors. No. All I was trying to say was that I think that song is unfairly prejudiced against valleys, and I like them.

Reminds me of Weird Al and the song Albuquerque, and a little Germanized rotten cabbage.