On January 1st of every year, we have a ritual in my Buddhist community that involves building a large juniper fire, a lhasang. A column of white smoke rises through the morning mist and carries the dew resting on the grass toward the glow of the rising sun. One of its meanings is to symbolically unite the earth and the sky, our daily concerns and our broader vision, the mundane and the spiritual. During this ceremony, we burn two small pieces of paper on which we write one thing we want to leave behind for the new year and one quality we want to cultivate.
Simplify
This year I burned “simplicity.” And the other scrap of paper? I don’t remember it anymore—probably some variation on “anxiety.” The fact remains that simplicity is surprisingly complicated to cultivate. As someone who intellectualizes just about everything, I end up at this kind of conceptual paradox and get tangled up in it. Yes, I see the irony.
Simplifying means returning to a state of authentic presence. Being with what is here, now—whether pleasant or not. It’s feeling my breath, my body moving through space. One foot in front of the other on the trails, my eyes open to the world, my gaze clear and fresh.
Simplifying means being touched to the very depths of my heart by the beauty of the world and being fully satisfied with just that. It means being, all at once, both in the space of the heart and in the space of the world. In the mundane and the spiritual. On earth and in heaven.
In the blue of the glaciers
If there is one place that, for me, can encapsulate this moment of unity—of pure communication between the heart and the world, of absolute simplicity—it is in the mountains, amidst the blue of the glaciers and the pink of the sky at daybreak.
In early July, I joined a climbing party setting out to ascend Roche Faurio (3,740 m) in the Ecrins. It’s a relatively non-technical peak via the standard route; there’s just one impressive and dizzying ridge traverse toward the end before reaching the summit. Our rope team consisted of Sylvain, the guide; Baptise and Noémie, a young couple of climbers from Quebec; and myself, a mountain lover but relatively inexperienced in mountaineering.
Our first day was an ice climbing course—learning how to climb 60-degree slopes on the glacier with crampons and an ice axe. It was fun; I quickly got into it. You have to be precise, strong, and keep your movements as simple as possible to conserve energy.
Ascent of Roche Faurio, at 3,740 meters
After a sleepless night at the Ecrins refuge (3,100 m), we got up at 3 a.m. to set out 40 minutes later. I’m pretty used to short nights before my athletic adventures; I know that the absence or lack of sleep has very little impact on the following day. That morning, I added one more challenge by literally streamlining my gear: my high-tech headlamp had run out of battery overnight, so I’d have to start the climb by the mere light of the moon. I was surprisingly calm about the idea—it even made me laugh a little.
All four of us are in excellent spirits, in great physical shape, and we pass three rope teams heading toward the Barre des Ecrins. I’m bringing up the rear; I can barely make out the contours of the glacier, but I feel enveloped by the night and by our silent progress. Every now and then, Noémie calls out, “Watch out for a crevasse!” and I scan the ground with a little more care.
Sylvain decides to abandon the standard route and spice up our climb by heading straight up the slope. We follow behind; it gets very steep but is icy enough for the crampons and ice axe to grip firmly. It’s a grueling effort, but our group is well-matched, and we move forward as one. The first light of day begins to break as we reach our first snow-covered ridge, with the Dôme and the Barre as a backdrop.
I’m speechless—the view is breathtaking. I find myself thinking I could stay here forever. We take a short break; I snap a few photos and exchange a few words. My head is spinning, and I’m a little worried it might be the altitude, since I’m the only one who isn’t acclimated. I reassure myself—my cardiovascular endurance is solid—and I refocus on my breathing, my body, and the ground.
We resume the climb; the trail is sometimes covered in snow and ice, sometimes rocky, with our crampons making a screeching noise that brings us back down to earth. The movement does me good—my feeling of fragility was fleeting—and I feel completely present and strong once again.
We tackle the final stretch—that famous ridge with its vertiginous slopes plunging hundreds of meters down into a narrow, dark valley. Baptiste and Noémie admit they’re scared, and their steps become hesitant. I hardly think about my feet anymore; my gaze constantly sweeps across this infinite expanse, giving me a steady horizon toward which to move. I don’t know if I’m afraid; I don’t really ask myself that question. There’s no longer any room for emotions of that kind; I’m filled with an entirely different feeling—that of simply being, just being.
The irony is always there: I had to climb high, very high, to take this difficult path to find what was always already there—the power of the heart, simple and unadorned, radiating out here toward the peaks and valleys.
On a tightrope stretched above the world
At the summit, we pause for a few moments. I don’t know if Sylvain senses my enthusiasm—we’re all very quiet in the face of such a spectacle—but he asks me to lead the way down. There’s a practical reason for this: I was last; we’re like tightrope walkers on this rocky ridge, so it’s much simpler for me to lead the way back down.
However, I’m now responsible for the people behind me; I have to figure out the route, choose the handholds, and find a rhythm that works for the whole group. The trust Sylvain has just placed in me is an immense gift that still sustains me as I write these words. As I retrace our steps along this ridge, my heart is full, and I walk as if on a tightrope stretched above the world—I touch the sky and brush against the earth.
I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. I felt honored to have had this experience. This space where earth and sky meet is not meant for humans; it is austere and harsh, and it is a privilege to be able to traverse it and encounter there the simplicity of simply being—filled at once with our own power and our insignificance.
These steps guide me, confident and happy, toward Aconcagua. The plane ticket to Mendoza was purchased largely thanks to your donations, but there are still many expenses to cover: high-altitude insurance, the expedition itself, the summit permit, and equipment. But I feel carried forward by my mountaineering experiences and your invaluable support, whatever form it takes. I’ve had some doubts lately—too expensive, too far, too selfish—but my coach Megan put it this way: “It’s an investment in happiness; you can never doubt that.”