Dessert First, Please

When is it okay to have dessert first? Outside of Portland, Oregon, the Multnomah Falls are legendary. Nestled into the Columbia River Gorge, this double-decker cascade of water drops a heart-stopping six hundred and twenty feet. The falls are a breathtaking treat that I only need step from the car to take in. Dessert first, please.

In the beginning, the ease with which I could observe the falls frustrated me. I like to earn my dessert. I like to sweat and climb and lose my breath before reaching the summit and taking in my prize. So, as I crossed the asphalt of the parking lot and paused to hear the rushing water, my shoulders slumped. I’d done nothing to deserve this treat other than arrive. Ever the one to demonstrate the living embodiment of perseverance, I pressed on. Searching for more.

I elbowed my way through the crowd and began my ascent. Loaded up with my bottled water and map, I hiked along the left side of this beauty. The rocks, slick from the perpetual spray of the falls, slipped beneath my boot. The switchbacks of the path allowed me to peek in to see the falling water through limbs and leaves. And the fresh air began its cleansing of my overworked essence.

As I approached the footbridge that crosses in between the two falls, I slowed and felt the droplets on my face and relished the freshness of pine-soaked air. I was able to put a pin in my disappointment at not having to work for my reward when the four-year-old inside me spoke up and said “just enjoy dessert first.”

As I stood there pondering my ingrained desire to work and move and toil to earn life’s rewards, I was reminded of a quote by the poet Mary Oliver:

It is the nature of stone to be satisfied. It is the nature of water to want to be somewhere else.” –Mary Oliver

Was I the water or the stone? In perpetual pursuit of the next challenge, the water rushed on. The water was me, and I, the water. No question. But I stared at the stalwart stone and longed to be that sure of myself, that strong, that still. I have known people of that fortitude who are certain of their talents and their flaws, accepting of them both. Those who can stand in a storm without flinching as the water cascades by. These are not stubborn souls, these are self-aware individuals who see no need in the constant motion that life demands. Standing still for them is comforting—and just is.

By nature, writers are those who seek, who take us on adventures, who pursue the somewhere else to understand human nature and life and God. How could I be anything other than the water?

The crowds of hikers on this day and on this bridge snapped their photos and pointed up at the grand sight and then moved on. But I stood, perhaps selfishly, for what seemed like hours to feel the rapid descent of the water beneath me in its search of somewhere else as I practiced being the stone, practiced being satisfied without having to work so hard, practiced enjoying dessert first.

Rare is the hiker who seeks solace in the stone. But that was me that day. And in that moment, I realized I could be both. I could choose when to be the stone amidst the rush of life and when I needed to move in pursuit of new ideas and places and goals and the somewhere elses. I could choose.

I then turned, satisfied with my reward, my peaceful moment, my insight, and left. I did not finish the hike. I didn’t need to finish—I’d gotten what I’d come for and I was satisfied.