There once was an old man who lived in my town.

I would often see him trundling about, limping awkwardly,

Helped along by a gnarled, ancient-looking staff of wood.

Every time I passed him by, he would smile, and give me a nod.

Regardless of the weather,

He always made a point of greeting me

As if the sun was shining down brightly on us both.

One day, while meandering through our central park,

I ran into the old man again.

This time, instead of making my way past him,

I chose to stop and ask him a question:

“Excuse me, sir --

Why is it that you always seem so cheerful?

I mean, you don’t even know me,

Yet you often take the time to stop what you are doing to say hi to me.”

He smiled.

“Young man” he replied, “it is because I spend my life climbing mountains.”

I gave him a puzzled look.  “Climbing?”

It was obvious that this man had trouble negotiating a flight of stairs,

Let alone a mountain.

“Yes,” he added.  “And it brings me so much joy,

I cannot help but share it with others.”

“I don’t understand,” I admitted.  “How do you climb?”

I was perplexed.

“We can all climb, my boy,” he said with a wink and a grin.

“Some of us just aren’t aware of our abilities.

When we are taught to ascend above

What we’ve been conditioned to believe is possible,

We experience in our everyday lives

Something very extraordinary,

And it puts everything into a different perspective.”

“I still don’t get it”, I admitted,

“But if you can climb, maybe there’s hope for me, too.

Will you teach me how you do it?”

“Ahhh, now that’s the spirit” he said, slapping his knee.

“By golly, looks like you’ve just taken the first step.”

And so he began to teach me to climb.