DURING A GAME, a
shuttlecock lodged itself
on the sunshade
above the courtyard.
The wooden ladder was
there, leaning against the
wall, its paint peeling.
Someone shouted, “Just
climb up and get it!”
So I did. Or at least, I
tried to.
What I remember
most is not the climb itself
but everything that
happened before it. The
questions that arrived
the moment I gripped
the sides. Will this hold
my weight? How will it feel at the top?
How do I move from the final step onto the
ledge without falling?
I had seen people use ladders a hundred
times. It had always looked simple. But
standing at the bottom, alone, with
no one holding the base, the ladder
became a series of small decisions
I had to make before climbing.
That first climb taught me
something, and since then, the
ladder itself became my teacher.
A ladder does one thing that
often goes unnoticed: it remains
in place while you move upward.
It does not climb with
you. It does not cross the
distance. It simply
holds steady, allowing
passage,
then waiting for
the next person. Teachers
work this way. They show
up semester after semester,
holding the same space
open while students rise
and leave. The ladder does
not ask to be carried forward.
Its work is in staying
behind, always ready.
There is something both
generous and invisible
about this. Like that first
climb, it rests on trust.
WHAT HOLDS YOU DOES
NOT KEEP YOU
A ladder is built for passage,
not permanence.
Each rung is there to bear your weight just
long enough for you to reach the next one.
If you stop, stand too long on the same
step, shift your centre, the whole structure
begins to protest. Your legs tire. The ladder
sways. What was stable a moment ago
starts to feel less so.
I have watched people at work treat roles
this way. A promotion arrives, or a project
succeeds, and suddenly that rung becomes
a place to rest. The instinct is understandable:
You worked hard to get there, so
why not stay a while longer? But lingering
comes at a cost. If you hold on too long, the
structure that supported your climb starts
to work against you.
The physics of a ladder is simple.
It must reach a certain plane. Setting it
lower or higher than this optimum leads
to disaster. Too low an aim, and it slips.
Too steep and it might tip backward. The ladder teaches what safety often
obscures. That aiming higher
is fine, but recklessness is not.
Aim higher while ensuring the
structure holds. Aiming too low
is never advisable! No matter
how tall the ladder or how urgent
the task, you still move one
rung at a time. You cannot skip.
Progress happens in small increments
that take time. You will not
do yourself any good by checking
progress at every rung. Instead,
trust that there will be improvement
from your small steps.
Ladders help you move from
one plane to another, but it is up
to the user to decide what end
this movement serves. I once
saw a tall ladder leaning against
a building that was being demolished.
Workers climbed up
and down all day, dismantling
what had taken years to build.
The ladder was impressive
— straight, sturdy, well-maintained.
But by the evening, the
building was gone.
If someone was taken by surprise,
the fault would not lie with
the ladder, but with not asking
where it was leading. Choose
your ladders wisely.
THE FIREWOOD
Our choices define us. There
is this meme on the web where
someone is stuck at the bottom
of a hole. A ladder is lowered
down. Instead of climbing out,
they break it into pieces and burn
it for warmth. The fire keeps them
warm for a while. Then it dies, the
wood is gone, and they are still in
the hole.
A ladder requires climbing. I
have a wooden ladder at home.
Whenever comfort feels easier
than effort, I think of that first
climb.
The question is not whether
the ladder would hold. It is simply
whether I am willing to climb.