If I had to choose a thing that best described my personality, I would choose a mountain. I am pathetically inert, slow to change, and will remain isolated rather than risk involvement with the human community and its causes. Mountains are quiet things, preferring the sound of wind and birdsong to the cacophony of human voices. 

This does not mean I am a dispassionate mountain. Perhaps it means quite the opposite. I see so much wrong with human kind that it is utterly overwhelming to me. I feel the weight of inertia, of complete hopelessness, dragging me down. I want to retreat into my shell like a snail in defense of a man’s boot—knowing it’s just not going to make any difference. Too much is wrong, and even if some things can be reversed, where in the world do I choose a starting place? 

The older I get, however, the more I feel convicted to advocate for our environment. I openly cry when a bird is hit by a car. I dread spring because too many young animals are vulnerable to inattentive or uncaring drivers who are late for work, juggling a cup of coffee in one hand and their cell phone in the other, and steering with their knees. Development of almost every kind is dreadfully sad to me. I worry about the desecration of open spaces, the filled-in wetlands, the loss of habitat. I do not even know what to pray for, and so I depend on the Spirit to intercede with groans that words cannot express.

We humans have a responsibility to protect all life below us, not only for the sake of the plants and animals in our care, but also for the sake of mankind. We, as stewards of the planet, must be deliberately cognizant that we share this world. Actions that negatively impact life beneath us will, inevitably, come back to bite us. Our fates are connected.  “There, but by the grace of God, go I,” as John Bradford perspicaciously noted in the 16^th century. It is in our own best interest to make difficult, long-term decisions now to insure a healthy planet for all forms of life.  

Mountains are symbols of immovability, but sometimes the fact that they just won’t budge is a powerful force for change. There is a collection of poems by Gary Snyder called “Cold Mountain Poems” that sums up my passion, and how I feel about the big blue ball. It puts words to the emotions my soul cannot say. One poem in particular describes beautifully the nature of wild places, and their value. I may not know what I can or should do yet, but like any good mountain, I have a quiet voice that resonates across the valleys when I am adequately nudged. And who better to speak for the trees than we mountains? 

The path to Han-Shan’s place is laughable.

A path, but no sign of cart or horse.

Converging gorges—hard to trace their twists

Jumbled cliffs—unbelievably rugged.

A thousand grasses bend with dew,

A hill of pines hums in the wind.

And now I’ve lost the shortcut home,

Body asking shadow, How do you keep up? 

In a tangle of cliffs I chose a place—

Bird-paths, but no trails for men.

What’s beyond the yard?
White clouds clinging to vague rocks.

Now I’ve lived here—how many years—

Again and again, spring and winter pass.

Go tell families with silverware and cars

“What’s the use of all that noise and money?”

“Is a life most virtuously spent working for the betterment of humanity, or is it enough to have     some fun, do some work, love a few people and try to be good?”  

This is the question Rose Curtland posed in The Book and the Brotherhood. My family has debated this question off and on for some 25 years. It's been an interesting insight into each other's opinions, core values, and personality traits. My writing buddy and I took up the assignment recently, putting forth an argument for the answer we believed to be the most virtuous way to approach life.

The question implies that there are only two answers. But when I began the writing assignment (50 words or less….ouch!!), I noticed for the first time that the question is neither mutually exclusive nor mutually inclusive. A life can certainly be called virtuous when lived for the betterment of humanity. But a life can also be called virtuous just as truthfully when someone "meets expectations."

I understand the premise. We should not squander our singularly greatest gift: the uniqueness that is each of us, embodied in a corporal shell--our soul's home here on Earth for some undetermined number of days. But who gets to define "virtuously spent?" Who gets to decide if it is “enough?” Will we trade papers? You grade my life and I'll grade yours?

 I believe the question itself is fallacious. All paths, if lived genuinely, have the possibility of leading to the same goal. Simple, unremarkable lives might not make headlines, but that has never been the litmus test for a life’s potential for influence.

So the answer to the question above is Yes. All of the Above. One answer does not preclude the other, and there are no “wrong” answers, except no answer at all.

 

When I leave this realm, I can honestly say I’ve had some fun, which I have tried to share with others. I’ve enjoyed meaningful work, which I did competently and with respect for those with whom I interacted. I’ve loved a few people, and I am hopeful my feelings helped them on their path to becoming who they are. I’ve tried to be good by making honest, rational and caring decisions, keeping in mind we are all on this ride together. Will I have "bettered" humanity? Maybe not. But I'm not grading the papers. None of us is, Rose, not even you.