By: Jennifer Richardson Holt
My life is something like reading an echocardiogram. There are high hills and low valleys, with a few unremarkable flat lines in between. Now that I think about it, if I’m making that analogy, my life is probably more like an abnormal echocardiogram—patterns rather sporadic and unpredictable. I’ve always been this way, though: thrilling peaks, pitiful dips, and then stretches where not much happens at all.
Those in between times are simply a matter of plodding along. And I don’t mean plodding along in a dreary sense. That phrase conjures up images that feel a bit too miserable for my taste. Let’s say that during those “flat-line” seasons—no, not that kind of flat line—I’m just moseying. Life continues in its familiar rhythm. The routine holds steady, and the ordinary takes up residence. None of this is news to anyone, of course; we all live in some rhythm of up, down, and in-between.
As far back as I can remember, I’ve always needed something to look forward to. Thankfully, even when life is quiet, I’m fairly skilled at finding it—whether it’s a holiday on the horizon or simply an upcoming meal I’m excited about. Naturally, I prefer sooner rather than later (who doesn’t love good things quickly?), but as I get older, time seems to move at light speed. Honestly, was there even an October? I remember maybe five days of it, and now it’s gone.
The strange mercy in that is I don’t have to wait as long for those big moments to arrive. The drawback, of course, is that the anticipation and the comedown happen in much quicker succession. Both feelings come rushing in close together—exhilaration followed by exhale. It’s quite the rollercoaster. Oh look—another analogy!
Right now, I’m in one of those flat-line stretches. And while the word still sounds bleak, I don’t mean it that way. It’s not a dead flat line—more like a matte finish. Matte can be beautiful in its own right, especially from someone with dreadfully oily skin. But matte isn’t shiny. It’s understated. It rarely gets written home about. It’s the not-momentous sort of season.
And truly, no one wants life to be monumental at all times. That would be exhausting. Let’s face it, even the mundane can wear us thin, so a constant parade of giant events would send me running for the hills—or better yet, to a mountain hobbit hole with a round door and ten to twelve meals a day. Honestly, as I picture it, I’m not mad at that idea.
I’m just coming down from a mountaintop moment—a flurry of a houseguest, grand events, and all sorts of fun I don’t usually get to have. Now, as the holidays rush toward me (and yes, my Christmas décor is already up), I find myself in the quieter valley between celebrations. Don’t worry—I gave autumn its fair chance with decorations since late August. The changing of the household ornamental guard is, in itself, something I always look forward to. Apparently, I’m quite good at finding expectancy in almost anything.
Is it ideal to live always awaiting the next mountaintop? I can’t say. It probably depends on how I treat the valleys and the long, level plains between them. I’ll admit, I’ve often bemoaned my time in the lows—and even in the everyday stretches of sameness. Thinking about it now, I see how easily dissatisfied I can be. Two-thirds of my life is not valley, which should be reason enough for joy. But alas, I don’t always rejoice as I should.
And yet, the truth remains: valleys are where things grow. The mountaintops offer beautiful views, but nothing takes root there. Growth happens down below, in the ordinary soil of our days. I may tire of the monotony, but this is the place where seeds are sown, watered, and nourished. It’s not the glamorous part of life’s cultivation—but it’s essential.
So perhaps there’s nothing wrong with looking ahead with excitement, so long as I don’t miss the quiet, formative moments on the way there.
Prose and Possibilities 