The Small Fir Tree: Lessons in Perspective From the Thing That Nearly Killed Me

I graduated with my bachelor's degree in April and have begun my intrepid journey into the realm of working full time. "You'll love it," they said. "You'll be happy," they said.

Whateverrrrr, is what I have to say after nearly a year of this. Working full time is boring. There's a reason no one writes books or makes movies about people who sit at a desk from 8 to 5 every day.

Part of the problem is that I haven't started myself on a career that I find particularly engaging or worthwhile (I'm working on fixing that, so don't cry for me, Argentina). But when I talk to other people in my situation—just graduated, working full-time for the first time, starting careers—they report symptoms that I experience as well:

• Boredom.
• Monotony.
• Sudden, intense interest in life-threatening but very cool activities, like knife throwing and motorcycle riding. 

Overall, the sense I'm getting from people is a mix of "I paid thousands of dollars in tuition and years of my life so I could do...this?" and "I can't wait till I retire or die, because I don't want to do this for the next thirty years."

The situation just makes you want to put your head on your new desk and cry for days.

But do not despair. This is not a blog post filled with the moans of despair from the lips of full-time employees! This is a blog post about joy!

Cue transition!

The other day I was skiing, which is one of the life-threatening but very cool activities I've picked up recently so I regain life after a dull work week. I was having a blast, enjoying that sublime Utah powder and laughing with friends. And then I hit a tree.

It was a small fir tree, and it probably sustained more damage than I did. But I smashed into it with much grace and also quite a bit of force, and then I flopped onto the ground. The tree was mad, so it dumped about two feet of snow on top of me. And so I lay there, covered in powdery snow and looking up at the sky, pondering significant life questions such as, "Who am I?" and "Where did that tree come from?"

Lying in a bed of snow after nearly breaking my own leg is when I do some of my best thinking. I suddenly became aware of how beautiful the mountain was. The pine trees were burdened with snow and dancing away from a playful breeze. The snow was falling, gentle and meek, and all around me the air seemed to snap with potential and life and stillness. And I realized that I had missed all of it—until I hit the small fir tree, that is.

I had become so focused on getting to the bottom of the hill (just so I could ride up a rickety ski lift and then go hurtling down the mountain again) that I had all but ignored the big picture--the mountain, the sky, the incredible views. It took hitting a small fir tree to open my eyes.

And then I was like, woah. Is this a life analogy, God? And God rolled His eyes.

So I sat up, brushed some of the snow away, and thought some more. What if getting through my boring work week, like my hasty, foolish ski runs, had dulled my senses and blinded my vision? What if I'd become so focused on just getting to the end of each day, each run, and had lost the wonder of looking around me and feeling joy? It was very confusing unto me, because I like skiing, and I don't like working, so the analogy was actually kind of convoluted and contradictory and also I maybe had a concussion?

But the point was this: I'd been journeying blindly.

Stupid, stupid, I rejoined myself. Then I looked around in wonder for a bit longer. And then I laughed and went searching for my skis, which had flown off in different directions and were lost in the forest.

Since my incident in the forest, I've thought a lot about the small fir tree. And what it taught me is this: it is so important that we keep perspective, perhaps especially when life seems monotonous and dull. I don't necessarily think that perspective changes the scenery—the mountain always was the mountain, after all—but it changes us. It changes our ability to feel and experience. And perspective allows us to find joy in the journey.

The perspective that I can embrace while sitting at my desk and doing others' bidding, for instance, is that I am a human with unlimited potential and many (as yet undiscovered) talents. My purpose in life is not to sit at this desk, but to serve and help others, to help them feel not alone, to teach them that light and happiness are easily found. I can do those things while sitting at this desk, and I can rejoice while doing it.

The small fir tree taught me that there is no such thing as a perfect run, a perfect career, a perfect life. But there is perfect perspective, filled with beauty and surprises and breathtaking opportunity, if only we are willing to lay in a bed of snow for a while and realize it.

And then we pick up our skis, strap back in, and love the journey home. Love it good and hard.