Last week a client asked me to explain what I mean about life's second mountain and how it's practically different from the first.
"We optimize for different things," I told her. "Mostly freedom."
I realized later, even though that's right, it feels vague. So I've been drilling down some examples of what "optimizing for freedom" looks like in life's second half.
Here are five.
1. "I don't care."
Former evangelical superstar and 5x NYT bestselling author Jen Hatmaker modeled this beautifully during a recent interview with the New York Times about her latest book Awake. The journalist shared what some Christian influencer had to say about the book and asked Hatmaker for a response. Hatmaker brilliantly replied, “I don’t care."
To be clear, Hatmaker wasn't saying she doesn't care about people; she very clearly does, having built a vibrant, supportive community of family, friends, readers and fans. That Christian influencer is just not one of those people, so her opinions, perhaps crafted as click-bait or drama-generation didn't land. Why should they? The world is full of opinions, why must we absorb all of them?
Most of us would only think "who cares." Hatmaker said it out loud, which, in my mind, makes her a baller and a second-mountain role model.
2. Nebraska.
Love is a state, like Nebraska is a state. There’s a vibe you expect from Nebraska, and even if you’ve never been there you can probably guess what it is: midwestern hospitality, neighborly cooperation and love of college football.
It’s the same with the state of love. John the Revelator, the one whom Jesus loves, writes that only our actions indicate our residency in the state of love. Talking about love is cheap, doing it is what matters. So if a state is known for a never-ending cycle of giving and receiving love, like a spinning waterwheel, how could you hate your brother and live there? It doesn’t fit any more than rooting for Iowa in Cornhusker stadium does.
Sadly, some days I get kicked out of Nebraska before my feet hit the floor, so I know I need help, but I'm not praying for behavior change or finer performance. I need help packing the U-haul and moving to a state where love, endlessly given and received, is just the way of things.
That's a second-mountain prayer.
3. Aging is a privilege.
No matter your ideas about what happens after death, right now is a singular (probably) experience; a game that millions of dying people — especially sick children — would give anything to play a little longer.
In that light, what does anti-aging even mean? Octegenarian author and activist Parker Palmer describes it "withering into the truth."
"My youthful "lies" weren't intentional. I just didn't know enough about myself, the world, and the right relationship of the two to tell the truth. So what I said on those subjects often came from my ego, a notorious liar."
Compassionately evolving to accommodate the withering is a choice that some folks never make, but it's a feature of second-mountain climbing. There are profound gifts in it, and just because our culture says young is better than old, doesn’t make it true.
4. Responsibility.
Responsibility looks different on the second mountain — not necessarily lesser, just different. Ever notice the median age of poll workers on voting day? They may not be sexy or fast, but they’ve been around long enough to recognize rising fascism when they see it, so they do their part to defend something that will matter in America long after they're gone.
That's a second-mountain behavior. Planting trees in whose shade you'll never sit, sharing wisdom with younger folks, without judgement or self-rightousness, and receiving wisdom in return.
As late-author and USC professor Leo Buscaglia famously said, it's not age that gets us, it's not feeling useful. Second-mountain climbers are generative, knee-deep in life, and doing things for others — the exact opposite of stagnant.
5. Fear
I’d hate to meet Jesus at the end of my life and have him show me all the stuff I missed because I let fear make my plans. There’s me clutching something teeny-tiny while Jesus sweeps his arm broadly across a huge something else.
The second mountain invites us to release our grip, to touch life lightly and quit it with the certainty that we always know what's good and what's bad. Who knows if some disaster we face might produce an unbelievably beautiful outcome. (Hatmaker's "Awake" is an object lesson in this.)
Second mountain climbers learn to accept that uncertainty with a cheery “I don't know, we’ll see.“ Maybe there’s less to fear than we think, and leaning into courage and curiosity is a superpower.
Have a great week.
I'm taking on a few private clients right now. If you're looking for help through and beyond a midlife deconstruction, book a free chat and we'll talk about it.
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