Relinquishing the Counter Culture

I have always counted things: books I’ve read, antelope on the horizon, calories, miles to go, ideas, vertical feet. In early adulthood, I counted credentials, promotions, vegetables, the “Big Five” for my kids to bring to elementary school, homework assignments. As I got older, I counted billable hours, votes, days on the mountain. 

I counted things as if I were casting spells, a sorceress conjuring safety and security for myself and my loved ones. The lists and spells and additions in my head meant a constant whir of noise that actually distracted me from the clarity that underpins satisfaction. 

I was the clichéd overachiever who couldn’t hear herself think. 

Standing on the tram dock recently with some friends who had accumulated many more ski days than me, I realized I had stopped counting. I had turned off the JHMR app statistics so I would pay attention to how it felt to be outside in the fresh air (or sideways-blowing snow). I didn’t want the true joy I feel when I’m skiing to be diminished by regret over missed days. I was no longer worried about keeping up with the vertical feet collectors. “Progress,” I thought to myself, acknowledging all that added up when I stopped counting. 

Nearly everything I now count on to bring me stability or balance or even joy was missing from those earlier lists. Most of it is simple: the way the dog cocks his head just so when I whisper, “Walk?” The way I look forward to a night with my girlfriends, knowing I will laugh until my sides hurt, or the intonation in my friend’s voice conveying his delight as he picks up the phone. The things I count on are as small and familiar as the smooth stones I throw in the river. And as plentiful. 

It's funny how often we go along mindlessly doing life because it’s the way we always did it, or joining in the fray not because we want to but because we haven’t paused long enough to check in with our own opinion. 

In the end, what could possibly matter more than being able to count on yourself?