Burnout (Part IV)

The conclusion of the matter:
          Dear Reader, if you sense in the air a sapping, the loss of all your strength and joy; if you feel powerless to plan and act and there seems to be no purpose in your life; if you forget how to feel happy and you find no beauty anywhere—not even in a Christmas snowfall or a flaming sunset over purple mountains—then you are probably sliding into the Valley of Burnout on slick mud, or you’ve already been there a long time.
          You cannot and will not think your way out. The exit plan will not materialize before you as you sit there, alone, your chin to your chest, within the dark and dusty confines of Slim’s Bar and Grill. Listen to me and follow my instructions. Cling to my words, like a drowning sailor on a floating spar, so that you may find your hope and joy again.
          Stand up from your wobbly table full of carvings and stains. Step back from your half-eaten bowl of cold soup, crumple your napkin—this is important—and throw it in the bowl. Walk to the swinging doors and press on through. Slim will holler, “Hey, you didn’t pay!” But he says the same thing every time, and it’s a lie. You paid for a lifetime membership. Slim cannot pursue you, because you owe him nothing.
          The wind and rain will strike you at an angle as you step onto the porch. Remember that old sting? You used to laugh at such weather. It cannot kill you.
          The lizards will snap at you. But each one is tied to the hitching post. If any one of them were not bound, would it still be standing there, snarling and snapping at every passerby?
          Take either set of stairs off the porch. Set a course for the roots of the hills—away from Slim’s. Don’t think twice about the direction.
          Find the greenest living thing you can, preferably hornet grass, for its roots plunge deep. On the direct line between any two clumps of grass, dig until you strike water. Drink deeply and feel the refreshment. You may instantly hear the Music of Joy. If you do, then you already know your next course. But don’t worry, even if you hear nothing at all.
          Look around. Your vision should be improving. Search until you find someone else. Share your water with them, and at least one of you will hear the Music. Follow it together.
          When you reach the archway, the exit from Burnout, don’t be like Slim, who wouldn’t change his ways. Turn sideways, press through, and wait. Joy will find you! You’ll hear her voice piercing the hazy air. She will run to you straightaway, bind up your wounds, and lead you out.
          The Whisperer lurks at the rim of the Valley. You may not recognize her, for she’s the Master of Costumes. She will sew a bright new outfit just to please you.
          Turn from her, and she will slink away. Call to her, and she will arrive instantly. With her two arms, she will pull you away from Joy. You will lose yourself, for she knows your favorite fragrance—the one that makes you forget who you are. She’ll kiss you and say, “Remember me now? Spin and descend. Take a trip to Burnout, just a short stay. Then report back to me that you’ve gone. There, there.”

*          *          *

          Dear Reader, if you lived in Burnout long ago, you might be thinking, “Leave me alone. I know the place.” But do you really? Do you care if you or your friends end up there again?
          The Valley hasn’t changed in a thousand years. If you’re an ultra-distance adventurer like me, I understand your passion. Like you, I once hoped to climb all the grand vistas of life, especially the steepest ones, and even set some speed records. Friends and family used to comment on how diligently I trained, how I fixed my eyes upon the trails, how I memorized even the most complex pathways. I injured myself often by pushing the limits of my skill, but I kept my adventurous dreams alive. The Valley lay forever in my way. It seemed to me then that the quickest way from one momentous peak to another was through the Valley. “Spin and descend!” I thought. And so I did, time and again. The long, scenic route around the rim seemed far too slow. But the shortcut never saved me time.
          Now, whenever I find myself in slick mud, I reach into my tunic—no hesitation—and retrieve the simplest of treasures, a well-worn note from Joy. I keep it with me always, because I’m prone to forget when the air turns foul.

                    “Any place is better than Burnout.”

          She exaggerates. She doesn’t mean that Burnout is worse than the Well of Despair or the Cesspool of Death. But you understand her meaning.
          Every time I read Joy’s message, I hear her caring voice. I remember the way I felt when she came to me with healing in her fingers and with no condemnation on her lips.
          My fellow adventurers, there’s risk and reward on the Slopes of Achievement. The Whisperer says, pretending to be helpful, “Everyone gets injured there,” and she’s right. Everybody loses their focus sometimes and stumbles on the Slopes of Achievement, where it’s a straight shot down into the Valley. The difference between climbing successfully and falling is a matter of attention, pacing, and friendship.
          Many years have now passed, but I have continued to study and document. I’ve met some hardy sailors—old salts with calloused hands and fissured faces—venturers on the Great Sea who claim that no place on earth matches the Charybdis of Leadership. They acknowledge, with wistful eye, that every sailor must first traverse the Doldrums of Aging. But at the Charybdis, where the sweep of the water pulls hardest, where oars break, and the strength of youth fades, where the swirl shatters every ill-made boat—there they hear the Song, the voice of Joy.
          Beyond the Charybdis lie the Gray Capes and the Twin Ports of Peace and Purpose.
          “How foul the pit of Burnout!” the sailors say. “When we lived there, we forgot ourselves. The mud encrusted us like barnacles. But now we’re out, never to return. We remember the living Sea, the salt and wind in our eyes, the pitch and toss of the foamy waves.”

The End

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