Life Journey

The Wind, The Mountain and The Sea

There are many metaphors for moving along the timeline called life. A journey, a garden, a roller coaster, or, as Forrest Gump famously said, a box of chocolates. Each of these images reminds me of a truth, that life is multifaceted and unpredictable, it is sometimes beautiful, sometimes tragic, but, in the end, I hope always meaningful.

Presently, after three quarters of a century, I’ve adopted a metaphor or simile (never learned the difference) of life as shaped by three elements: the wind, the mountain, and the sea. Each one reflects not just an age or the passing of time, but a different way of moving through the world—and a different relationship to happiness and contentment.

In my earliest years, life felt as though it was propelled by a steady wind at my back. I learned first how to walk, then how to talk, what to say, what not to say. Later I learned how to navigate school, friendships, and the subtle currents of social life. I didn’t choose the direction so much as respond to it. The wind pushed me forward, and I learned balance simply by staying upright as the wind at my back carried me along.

Happiness in those years came in burst, figuring things out, being accepted, achieving another small milestone. There was no time to rest, at that point life was by its very nature restless. The moment something was mastered, something else appeared. I was always moving, always learning, always just short of settling for life as it was.

Looking back, I see that the restlessness wasn’t a flaw. The wind at my back taught me how to navigate life, teaching me resilience but offered no contentment.

Eventually, as I entered midlife the wind continued but the terrain changed. In front of me rose the mountain—work, family, commitment, responsibility. Life became less about being pushed forward and more about deliberately climbing a mountain, one step at a time.

This was the long ascent of midlife, where progress slowed and effort was constant. Every gain required planning, endurance, and tradeoffs. I measured success less by speed and more by stability. Always judging how much weight I could carry without losing my footing.

There were moments of real happiness, moments of deep sadness and significant moments of failure on the mountain, but also accomplishments, security, and a sense of purpose. But they came with weight. Even at the peaks, there was always another mountain ridge ahead. I learned here that achievement does not automatically bring contentment, and that striving can quietly crowd out stillness, happiness, and relationships.

The mountain taught me what effort means and it taught me the cost of that effort.

In later life, I felt something shift again. The climb subtly eased, almost without realizing it the path shifted downward toward the sea. The demands of the climb gradually loosened their grip. The urgency to prove gone, the need to build a life done, the constant push forward slowly eased gradually becoming a leisurely walk on the beach sand.

At the sea, movement feels different. The waves do not ask me to conquer them. They arrive and recede, steady and indifferent to my pace. This is where contentment finally made sense to me—not as excitement or achievement, but as acceptance.

I don’t live without joy here. Happiness still visits, quietly and unexpectedly. But it no longer drives everything. Even though much has been lost or left behind, what replaces it is the sense that nothing essential is missing.

When you finally reach the sea, you understand the value of all the motion that was required to arrive, and you learn the sea doesn’t require motion to justify your presence in it. It simply receives you as you are.