I took a deep breath and admired the view.
Behind me stood the columns of the Parthenon. Ahead of me, the white, sunlit rooftops of Athens stretched into the distance.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my Canon PowerShot camera. As I prepared to take some photos, I heard my mother’s voice.
Worth the climb, huh?
Ah yes, the climb. The steep 500-foot ascent from the city center to this point. I’d been hypnotized by this vista and forgotten about it. Until now.
The flashback to this recent trek made me shudder. Thank goodness my family made that climb on one of the coldest days of the year. Those poor souls who visited Athens in the dead of summer had it rough.
As I considered all this, I reflexively lowered my right arm. The PowerShot was still firmly in my hand, but that hand was now parallel with the outside of my jeans.
I raised my arm once again to take some more photos. But now the view looked different.
The city looked grander, the sun brighter, and the hills in the distance more luscious.
It had been an arduous trek to get up here. And now, the destination appeared worthy of the journey.
I took a few steps and anchored my feet upon the crushed rubber surface.
The view ahead of me now was not that of Greek hills and valleys. Instead, it was the flat oval of a running track in the faded light of dawn.
I was about to embark on my first run workout in seven months. And I was equal parts nervous and hopeful.
I pressed a button on my watch, and I was off. Within seconds, I was flying down the front stretch with reckless abandon.
I felt alive. I felt free — if only for a moment.
By the time I hit the backstretch of the track, I was gassed. Three more laps at this pace were just not in the cards.
So, I dialed the pace back, lap by lap. That mile-long journey resembled a slow fade.
Moments later, I stepped off the track for a swig of water. As I grabbed my bottle, I was despondent.
Why was this so hard? Had I lost my way?
I thought back on my preparation that morning. Had I not stretched for long enough? Had I not fueled properly?
And then, out of nowhere, I thought back to that morning in Athens.
You see, I was out here standing on high, taking the view ahead of me at face value. All while ignoring the arduous journey to my perch.
I had willingly forgotten about the injury I’d suffered, the doctor’s visits I’d had, the surgery I’d endured. I had buried the memories of lying in an MRI machine, hobbling around in a walking boot, or struggling through endless Physical Therapy exercises.
The journey back seemed irrelevant. How I’d gotten my second chance meant less than what I did with it.
I had to make the most of my opportunity. And I simply hadn’t yet.
But maybe I was deluding myself.
The Parthenon of Athens is iconic. But it’s also a reminder of what once was.
Indeed, the columns basking in the Mediterranean sunlight represented the skeleton of a great temple. And in the days when that temple stood intact, a legend reverberated through the Greek hills.
The legend was that of Heracles — better known to us as Hercules.
After killing his family in a fit of madness, Hercules was assigned 12 tasks to satisfy his penance. These tasks were nearly impossible to achieve. Yet, Hercules risked life and limb to master them.
This process elevated Hercules. Not only did he erase the shame he had brought upon his name, but he also gained mythical status.
The arc of Hercules is a narrative lynchpin— one commonly referred to as a man in hole story. As the late novelist Kurt Vonnegut once pointed out, audiences admire that narrative. So, tens of thousands of tales now follow its pattern.
Even so, I feel this fascination is mostly aspirational.
We accept the protagonist’s ordeals only if they lead to a better outcome. We want to see that figure thrive on the backside of adversity. For it proves that our own lowest of lows can lead to the highest of highs.
Yet, something laudable gets lost in this process. Namely, the return to the status quo.
Getting back to where we started is a non-event. It just isn’t worth writing home about.
We need the culmination first.
As I stood beside the track after my workout, I realized just how far into this trap I’d fallen.
I was obsessed with what I was to become. And I was unwilling to just be.
Perhaps more achievements were in store for me. Perhaps they weren’t.
But just getting back to running was a notable feat. And it was high time I recognized it.
A trek to the heights of Athens would surely look different these days.
The columns of the Parthenon still stand. And that vista of sunlit rooftops persists.
But that Canon PowerShot that was in my right hand that winter morning? It’s long been retired.
Six months after I descended from the Acropolis, Apple founder Steve Jobs took the stage in California. He announced a revolutionary product called the iPhone.
That device — and others like it — changed the way we interact with each other, shop, read the news, and take photos.
It’s perhaps the greatest example of our society’s thirst for better.
It’s easy to get caught up in novelty. It’s all too natural to do so.
But what’s next isn’t all that matters.
What we have, what we’ve built, what we’ve regained — all of that is significant.
It’s important to consider from whence we’ve come, and to celebrate our accomplishments. It can provide needed perspective. And it can relieve some of the tension inherent in our drive for more.
I will try to consider the bigger picture moving forward. Will you?