There's No Comparison

I like to read a lot, and in the summertime my reading trends toward the lighter fare, my choices usually ending up being non-fiction, adventure pieces. Lately I have been reading several books written about the history, expeditions, and tragedies that are an integral part of the sport of mountaineering, like Jon Krakauer’s Into Thin Air, which I read several years ago. I’ve been hooked on such stories since.

I started this summer with High Crimes, by Michael Kodas, a book about what a circus the scene on Everest has become in recent years, and K2, by Ed Viesturs. I’ve switched mountains in reading Viesturs, and I am now devouring his first book, No Shortcuts to the Top, which also chronicles his quest to top all fourteen of the world’s mountains over 8,000 meters.

It’s not hard to recognize that I’m living vicariously through these books. I have never once set foot on a massive mountain, or done anything that even resembles mountain climbing. But, reading these books—as any good book should—transports me, allows me to be someplace mentally where I have never before been. The only downside to that: the realization sometime after reading them that I may never actually be there, or do those things. That’s kind of a bummer.

I had a moment to think about these things recently, what my life was and wasn’t, at the dinner and dance that was a part of my high school reunion. It was a fairly large event; about 300 people from various years ended up attending, and I was spending as much time working it as I was enjoying it. I didn’t really get the chance to stay in one place and talk with some of the people I wanted to spend time with while it was going on, instead tending to several details that came up or moving around the room and making sure everyone was enjoying themselves.

At some point I took a minute to myself and just sat, getting off my feet at one of the empty tables at the edge of the large ballroom. It was then that I slipped into an old habit of people watching in large crowds, and I began to examine who had made the trip to see old friends, and who was gathered with whom. What I first noticed was that the room was filled with people from every end of the socio-economic spectrum, but that it didn’t seem to matter to anyone. The room was mixing well, and most everyone was glad to see anyone they recognized.

But when I noticed that aspect of the individuals of the crowd, I began to wonder about the different paths all of our lives had taken between the years we were all last together and now. There were people there who had experienced success in differing degrees, as well as people who had endured equal levels of hardship. As I mentally went around the room, I imagined what their lives must have been like before that night and what experiences they must have had.

Watching and imagining about people is a writer’s habit. Observation, particularly of human nature and motivation—to me—has has always been extremely interesting. It is fascinating to try and understand why people do the things they do, and what they do. In doing that, you sometimes have to work backwards and fill in the gaps to see if it explains why they act or behave in certain ways.

But the problem with what I was doing at the moment was that I let it slip a little past that, and I began to evaluate what I thought of my life in comparison to some others, particularly other lives that I thought might have been a little more fortunate than mine. It was a silly thing to do, a self-indulgent moment of feeling sorry for myself, actually. And before I could realize it, I was justifying my life experiences to myself in order to feel better.

I mentally ticked off the places I have been and the things I have seen. I visualized the parts of the country that I traveled in my years on the rail, beautiful places, that I know most people will never see because they were so remote. I remembered diving in Mexico, Puerto Rico, Hawaii, the Bahamas, and Florida. I remembered being out all night on the streets of Barcelona with friends, and then deciding to go on to Paris and spend four days with them there. I remembered the Louvre, and the Seine at night. I told myself that most people will never see their first philharmonic performance outside on the steps of a 600 year old church in a village in Italy. I told myself that just as few will likely ever fish the deepest, most remote wilds of Canada, or fly a small plane out of it.

I told myself all those things, until I realized how stupid I was acting, because I was doing the very thing that I supposed that others might be doing if they were to compare their lives to mine. In my attempt to justify my life to myself, I ended up pushing myself over the edge and being smug, and feeling like my life was more fortunate than theirs. It was a waste of my energy, and so untrue.

I think we all have lives of value, and no one is valued any more than the next. Many years ago, while I was still traveling a great deal, I used to marvel at the lifestyles of people who lived in rural areas. I always wondered how they did it, without the conveniences and entertainments I thought necessary to an enjoyable life. At one point, I remember scoffing at what I thought were their backwards ways, with pickup trucks and four wheelers, and rifle racks in the back windshield, and small towns that offered no big city amenities at all. I used to think my life was so much better than that, and I wondered how they ever resigned themselves to living their lives out that way, without questioning what more they could have if they ever escaped it.

Then one day, I managed to get to know O.D., a man who would later invite me into his home with his family anytime I was working near his small town in Arkansas. They embodied everything I thought was wrong with small town America, but they were the warmest of people. I ended up spending a lot of time with O.D. and his family, and I learned that their life was just as rich as mine, maybe even more so at the time. And they helped me understand that my judgments about their lifestyle were wrong. My life was no better than theirs, just different. Their reality was just as fulfilling to them as mine was to me.

It was also the moment in my life where I began to see people I didn’t really know less as objects, and more as real people. From there it was just a few stepping stones to appreciating individuals and differences, and striving for inclusion. But, that took years, and today I still have to keep a vigil over myself about it.

I would have been better served to remember that particualr lesson in the contemplative moment I experienced that evening, watching everyone and comparing my life to theirs, but I didn’t. Instead, something small happened which taught me a similar lesson through another avenue.

As I got up from that table, resolved that my thoughts were silly to be having at that moment and wanting to get back out to talk with the people I came there to see, I was facing another table on which the names of fallen classmates were memorialized. Suddenly I realized I should consider myself very fortunate for what I have and what I have experienced, because in front of me was a table full of names of people that probably would have loved to have any of it. Each person listed there was someone whose life—even at our middle-age—was cut way too short, and who deserved better. It was pretty selfish of me to feel like I had to rationalize my life, even to myself, and even just for a moment or two.

It’s much better, I think, to realize and be grateful for what my life has been, and that the value of it is important to me and no one else. I’ve never climbed any mountains in the literal sense, but I think I can say I’ve gone up a few figuratively. I’ve never had great wealth or possessions—a poor means of measurement in any sense—but , I’ve had my share of life experiences, have some great friends, and two beautiful daughters.

And I’m not someone listed on a memorial table, which may be the only measurement any of us need.