Have you ever been on a hike, only to come upon a small creek that you need to cross? You chart a potential path, identifying high rocks you can step on to make it to the other side. Will those rocks hold? Are they secretly slippery, even though they don’t appear to be? You are certain you will make it to the other side of the creek, but will you step on the opposite bank unscathed? Something holds you back from taking that first step, off the ledge, onto the nearest rock. Is it fear? Self preservation? Ego?

And then, eventually, (perhaps at the urging of your hiking buddy who is already across the creek), you take the first step. And it’s all fine. You don’t slip, or maybe just enough to get your boots wet, and surely that’s not going to ruin your hike. You get to the other side, take a look back at where you’ve been, and think — Huh, that wasn’t so bad. What on earth was I so worried about? Your hike continues, and you eat some cheese and crackers and have a great day.

To my husband, and later to a friend, this was the only way I could describe my recent anxiousness over a big decision. I was desperately craving the euphoria of that step onto the bank on the other side. I knew, with every ounce of gut instinct, that it was the right choice, but I was having problems stepping off the river bank, into the stream.

Perhaps this analogy makes no sense to anyone but me, and everyone else gleefully steps off a safe bank into a river crossing, with no hesitancy. But I’m not wired that way. At any rate, this is what was rattling around in my head, as I traveled to a California beach to see Pearl Jam play at Ohana Fest. My husband wasn’t able to go, so I invited my college-age son, whose campus is not too far away.

It felt great to be with my people (“Drop the Gyro and Run”). Although my kids both know of my PJ fandom, I am glad that they have both now seen that their mom is not the only one. I gave up long ago on trying to explain Pearl Jam (and my concert-going) to people outside my family. Now I just own it, and people can think whatever they want about why I’m “like that” (“Knowledge From the Box”). My son loves concerts too, and he casually observed at one point during the day, “Usually at music festivals, it’s people my age. But at this one it’s all… people your age” (read: old people). Oy. I refrained from telling him that his generation did not invent music festivals, and neither did mine.

At concerts, I am often in my head, and I typically make some discoveries. I knew that the show would be meaningful because it was my first post-pandemic concert, and because I would be seeing Pearl Jam with my son. I took my daughter to a PJ show a few years ago, and it was beautiful (“Big Sky Gratitude”). But I under-estimated the gravity of this one. As the music started, I realized that, while the show was all that I expected, it was also something bigger: a bookend. The first time I saw Pearl Jam, I was just a few weeks away from starting law school. This time, I am at the other end of that choice.

Somewhere in the evening, I realized that my analogy was all wrong. While that first step off the bank is indeed crucial, we shouldn’t focus only on the safety of the other side. I decided to embrace the discomfort. The rock-stepping is part of the process. The journey gives us freedom to view ourselves differently, and approach things through a new lens.

In the crowd near us, I overheard a son ask his dad why he wasn’t dancing to a particular song. The response was so great. The dad said, “It’s a perfectly fine song, it’s just not for me”. We can use that mantra for anything, including big decisions. (Also, I vow that, from this day forward, I will always embody this sentiment when I am complaining about discussing a set list.)

And in terms of my hike, I did take that first step into the creek. I haven’t yet taken that blissful other-side-of-the-bank step, but I am somewhere in the middle, and the rocks are holding up just fine.