Molehills Are The Mountains
Molehills get a bad rap.
“Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill.” I hear that, and I hear a snarky way to say “molehills are unimportant and stupid and not worth your time.”
How the phrase is typically used, sure. Don’t cause unnecessary stress or arguments or all of the above – I get it
But maybe this cliché needs a bit of a rebrand.
Maybe it’s easy to see life as a series of molehills that we need to trudge over to get to the mountains… ‘cus the mountains are what really matter after all!
But maybe life is mostly “molehills.”
I think our default perspective is to live for the mountains – the big moments. The night out with friends. The big concert I’ve been looking forward to for months.
This framework exists at a smaller scale too. The big moments in each day. The moment I finally finished work and gave myself permission to smoke that joint. When I could finally relax with my TV and scrolling combo before bed.
Everything else is something to get through…
The dishes I had to wash after work were just a roadblock. The line at the grocery store was a roadblock. The trip to the DMV I procrastinated for months was a major roadblock.
But maybe if we don’t enjoy the molehills, we won’t be able to enjoy the mountains. Because we haven’t opened ourselves up to joy or something like that.
From my experience of falling into this trap, big moments would become a pressure-cooker of expectation that tainted these supposed-to-be-incredible experiences.
My expectations weren’t satisfied. How could they be?
I talk about this like it’s in the past – but if I’m being completely honest, I still fall back into this mindset a lot of the time. It takes a conscious effort to not approach life with this default perspective.
A conscious effort to focus on death, if I’m being blunt. A fact of life that was shoved right in my face this past year, in the type of shocking and unexpected way you can’t just shake off.
It’s an understanding that we will die and that in some way, every single second of our lives is a microcosm of death. The moment is over. See’ya.
Death initially didn’t give me a choice but to think about it. But now that its blunt force trauma has healed, I have to be deliberate about seeing it. And I am. ‘Cus recognizing death has given me a fresh perspective on life.
A perspective where the harsh realities of life are more present in the day-to-day. And they’re not so harsh after all.
One where I live with the intention to enjoy the small moments. The connective tissue of life.
To enjoy the long line at the grocery store, even though they only have one register working (“...are you fucking kidding me…?! this is peak grocery hour!”).
To enjoy washing the dishes, even though my partner SAID she was going to wash them before she left for work.
To enjoy my few moments of boredom, since they’re so few and far between. And unless I’m deliberate about allowing boredom into my life, my natural inclination will be to use up any time that could potentially lead to boredom with some sort of nonsense on my phone.
I still look forward to things, trust me. I think that having things on the schedule to look forward to is one of the most reliable hacks for my psyche. Not living for those moments, but being present with the excitement living somewhere in the trenches of my consciousness. Not “working for the weekend,” but having an excitement for the weekend that fuels me throughout the week.
And I’ve found that at least trying to enjoy the “small”, monetonous things – the dishes, the laundry, the part of work you sort of dread, the commute – allows me to enjoy the “big” moments a lot more.
But I need to be intentional about this. Otherwise, I’ll slip back into that default perspective.
We hike big mountains and our instinct is to take pictures at the top – the big, panoramic views. This is what it was for! But most of the hike is spent trudging through the forest, covering steep terrain, and passing the “ordinary” scenery of sameness – that on further investigation, is incredibly unique and extraordinary in its own way. Every inch.
To me, noticing this is the fun part.
That cool alien-looking mushroom you passed. The rocky terrain you had to climb. The weird tree you saw that’s bending, yet standing, in a way that defies physics. The deep conversations with Emily.
So don’t let them fool you, molehills are the shit.