Landing in London is like being dropped into the ocean with everything you need to survive but no idea how to use any of it; of course there is always Notre Dame there to pick you up, but I’m more of the sink or swim type.
In the bustle of crowded streets, new cultures, and endless opportunity it’s easy to find yourself gloriously lost in the constant beating of the city’s pulse. How can you swoop into London’s veins, becoming a part of the very flow that makes it so fantastic without losing yourself? Would you want to lose yourself? That’s the beauty of it all, right: an opportunity to be who you want to be – even if it changes night to night.
But in this schizophrenic, blissful disarray perhaps there’s something to be remembered about one’s true self or even about the true nature of life itself. The squeeze of London’s three-chambered heart* makes for one Hell of a ride, but does it provide a mirror or a stage?
Suffocating in the very essence of life, I found myself out of London, and out of England, for a breath of fresh air. The quiet mountains of Wales allowed me to escape the depths of another heart to find my own.
Clean, quiet, green… quiet. Maybe it wasn’t the bustle that allowed my voice to become so loud, but the noise that kept me from hearing it. But here, it was peaceful. Here, I could think, question, and respond – mocking the personalities of London with coherent introspective repartee. Was there something to find beyond the white sheep that dotted the rocky landscape of my soul?
At the peak of Wales’ tallest mountain, a bitter chill entered my lungs and warmed my person with the realization that the very class I had taken on impulse depicted the predicament I found myself gripped by in every moment. A condition more human than personal: to question, to wonder, and to look beyond.
On the other side of the peak drifted a cloud allowing a single column of light to creep across the empty green side of Crib Goch which I had traversed just hours before. It was a traveling spotlight, highlighting what I had failed to see on the journey itself. Only from farther down the path could I appreciate what I’d already accomplished, and in that moment – where paths converged on Snowdon Mountain – the silence was broken, and I heard the voices of those around me.
They did not say anything particularly meaningful as would be appropriate for such a discovery, but in their normalcy I appreciated what had brought me here. It was the same thing that had brought us all here.
I had never imagined myself on top of a mountain in Wales, nor studying in London, nor making friends across the globe, nor searching myself for what such compound words mean: and yet I was here – and it was great.
It’s alternative theatre… all of it. Life is a stage, but not one with practiced lines and sold-out audiences. It’s a rehearsal without an opening; a practice without a game; a climb without a peak.
I like the last one. It’s uphill. The whole way you are battling against the unknown trying to see what comes next but never able to appreciate anything until the clouds part and something draws your attention away from the next step back to the rocks behind. There’s no goal, no intended path: life is a mountain without a summit. The view gets better the higher you go, but it’s never any easier.
We all carry our own packs. Some are heavier than others, but while portmanteau may carry feathers, valise can stuff bricks. At that precise moment, having left London, climbed this mountain in Wales, and looking out over the triple mirrored lakes in the base of the Snowdon Horseshoe I saw a truth.
Searching for a peak was of little use (finding one might be more frightening any way – the idea of a downhill until the bottom). Searching out the easiest path didn’t matter either. The only thing that screamed over throbbing shoulders, calves, and feet was that climbing would have been easier without any weight at all.
With friends and family, there will always be someone to pick you up:
But I’m more of the sink or swim type.
Back in the city; back to the stage with a perpetual spotlight on my own life, one equally burning, though invisible to me, on each person I pass on the street; back to the pounding, London rhythm. But I skipped out on a beat or two, and in this palpitation came a sort of revelation and a new appreciation for the lack of destination.
*
Central London composed of City, West End, and Southbank
All images and text in this essay copyright Jeff Lakusta
