Enjoy the Moment

{Prompt: What would you consider to be your motto?}

— J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

A Good Motto

It seems like a really good motto should be in Latin.

“Esse Quam Videri” — the North Carolina state motto — is one of my favorites. It means, “To be rather than to seem.”

“Maius opus moveo” — my high school motto — is also appropriate. It means, “Accept the greater challenge.”

“Carpe diem” — a widely understood quote from Horace — may be the closest to the heart of my core beliefs. It means, “Seize the day.”

Misquoting Ralph Waldo Emerson, I’ve often said in real life, “It’s the journey, not the destination”, or more simply, “Try to enjoy the journey,” as I try to remind myself and my companions not to be so serious — to try not to plan every single second.

It seems like good advice, as I see those ideas reflected in the principles of ‘Mindfulness’ and in the practice of Zen Buddhism. I’ve heard that — in a nutshell — depression is too much worry about the past, and anxiety is too much worry about the future, so we should “Live in the moment”.

In reality, that’s really hard to do. Boy Scouts taught me to “Be prepared.” That’s pretty much diametrically opposed to living in the moment.

And in medical school, we learned to “First, do no harm.” But to avoid doing harm, you pretty much had to foresee the consequences of your actions or recommendations. I wasn’t able to foresee future outcomes back then as readily as I was after I completed my medical training.

As I’ve grown to realize from experience, many mistakes are made from rushing headlong into adventure. And yet, ironically, we learn best and most consequentially when we learn from our misadventures.

The lessons of experience are especially painful — and memorable — and eventually, in hindsight, they can be really amusing. So now, when I tell someone to “Enjoy the moment”, I often add the corollary, “If it goes badly, at least it’ll make a good story someday.”

View near the top of Beehive Trail

The Beehive Trail

And there are many such stories in my life of mistakes that became legendary. There was the time when Dianne and I went hiking up the Beehive trail in Acadia National Park — a trail described as “challenging” and “adventurous” — offering “stunning views of Sand Beach and the Atlantic Ocean”.

Somehow we missed the part of the description that warned of narrow ledges, steep drop-offs, and areas that required rock scrambling (or we found the details too dire or fantastical to be believed).

We were given a firm warning in the form of a sturdy wooden sign nearly blocking the path, with the bold words, “IRON RUNGS AHEAD”. We still had a chance to turn back and take another trail, but we just didn’t know what it meant. So we both laughed at the cryptic nature of the warning and moved on ahead.

As we walked up the rocky path, it began to look less like a trail, and more like a ledge! The scrubby brush and loose pebbles began to fall away, opening up views of the corrugated surface of the ocean and the distant parking lot down below— cars appearing to be the size of miniatures in a model diorama.

We began to pass, on one side, the trunks and branches of trees rooted far below. On the other side, the rock face rose, as steeply as a ladder. Looking up along the rock face, we could see the figures of other climbers shuffling along the ledges up above, and above them, the blue backdrop and clouds of the Acadian sky.

This is when, as our progress slowed and we caught our breath, we saw a few things—things we had rarely (or never) seen on a mountain trail before:

1 - some people were stopping, looking at one another, worriedly considering —or reconsidering— their plans;

2 - some people were turning back, carefully and apologetically passing us by, on the narrow path, as they retraced their steps; some shaken by fear, others muttering oaths to themselves, upset at having to give in to their fears; and

3 - Iron rungs, like the rungs of a mountain ascent, leading up ten to twelve feet from the ledge we were on, to other ledges above — each ledge with seemingly greater and greater distance between the climbers above and the ground far below.

At this point, the trail became a bona fide climb of the 450 foot rock face and our understanding of the warning sign was completely answered. Between the two of us, nothing was said, surprisingly, and with one accord, we grabbed the iron rungs and went on. Only now, the climb took on more gravity (pun intended) as we were fully aware of the potential for calamity with any misstep or folly.

Dianne went first, and she climbed upward with a ferocity I had never seen before or have I seen since. And I was right on her heels (literally and figuratively) as I followed behind and below. Neither of us dared to stop and turn around to ‘enjoy’ the view — afraid of recreating a scene from “Vertigo” and losing either our footing or our courage.

With a fine layer of sweat glistening in the sun, we approached the bare summit, where we were wrapped in a cooling breeze. As the path leveled off, we found an area of solid footing, well away from the precipitous mountainside, and took our first looks at one another since we began our mad scramble up. It was a look of relief and disbelief.

“You’re gonna have to call the helicopter, ‘cause there is no way we’re goin’ back down that trail!”, said Dianne.

I chuckled and nodded. I had already resolved to find another, less death-defying way down, if I lived to see the top.

“Put the fear of God into you, and you can climb pretty fast!” I said.

“Well, we’re NEVER doin’ that again!” she replied.

Dianne near Beehive Mountain on a return visit.

In fact, we actually did climb Beehive mountain again, but we took the easy, more circuitous trail to the top, and we enjoyed every moment, every view of the rugged, glacier-carved Acadia National Park, speckled with various hues of greens and evergreens on the ochre rocks, blue sky above and blue-green ocean below, meeting at the horizon.

Various dots of fabricated colors indicating the presence of fellow tourists, in colorful garb, hiking in the distance. From the safety of our “easy” trail, we saw a line of those colored dots in the distance, young and foolish (dare I say, intrepid) adventurers, snaking up the side of the steep eastern face of Beehive. And we were okay with that.

“Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” - Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

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Sidebar - a Word about Courage

In medical school, when learning new skills, and practicing them on patients, we embraced the mantra, “Fake it ‘til you make it,” meaning: betray no evidence of fear or incompetence until you can actually do your job without fear or incompetence.

There was no allowance for apprehension or hesitation from our mentors, and a patient’s cooperation and confidence could be easily compromised by any evidence of nervousness or inexperience.

We were expected to “See one. Do one. Teach one.” This is a great way to develop courage and proficiency, and it works in every art or discipline:

“See one” (demonstration of a procedure) carefully memorizing the finer points and the steps required.

“Do one,” whether you’re ready or not, and learn from your mistakes.

Reflect on your experience and prepare to “Teach one” to the next person up.

“Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway.”

- John Wayne