When I go skiing in New England, I usually wake up early and

Hear the words of Sunita Williams, an explorer of earth and of the heavens, who spoke with simplicity of her earthly joy: “When I go skiing in New England, I usually wake up early and drive up to Vermont, New Hampshire, or Maine to make it in time for chairlift opening. That means leaving early and getting breakfast at one of the little quaint diners up in the mountains.” At first, this may seem a tale of routine, of travel and food before sport. Yet beneath its surface lies the wisdom of preparation, of rising early, of savoring the humble blessings that precede moments of triumph and delight.

For what is skiing but man’s attempt to join with the mountain, to surrender to its slopes while mastering balance and speed? And what is waking early but a sacrifice of ease in order to greet the day with readiness? Williams’ words remind us that joy is not only found in the soaring down of snowy peaks, but in the quiet labors that make such joy possible: the rising before dawn, the steady driving through cold roads, the humble meal taken in a mountain diner. Thus the path to delight is woven with discipline and simplicity.

The ancients knew this rhythm well. The warrior did not glory in battle alone, but in the rituals of sharpening his blade, in the dawn march, in the bread eaten with comrades before the clash. The athlete of the Greek games was not crowned for the moment of victory alone, but for the months of training, the early mornings, the labor unseen. Williams’ tale of New England mornings is such a ritual: the discipline that precedes joy, the small sacrifices that allow the soul to taste greatness.

Consider the story of Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay, who became the first men to stand upon Everest’s summit. Their triumph was not only in the final ascent, but in the countless small labors before it: the early risings, the meals shared in the cold, the patient steps through snow and wind. Their victory was forged not in one great leap but in a thousand humble acts. So too with Williams: to descend the mountain with joy, one must first ascend life’s smaller duties with diligence.

There is also wisdom in the quaint diner, which may seem but a detail, yet speaks deeply of human life. For the greatness of the day is nourished by the simplicity of the morning. The eggs, the bread, the hot coffee taken in fellowship or in solitude—these are not lesser moments but sacred ones. They remind us that glory is not only found in peaks and conquests, but in the warmth of simple things that give strength to the body and joy to the heart.

Thus her words reveal a teaching of balance: seek not only the heights, but also the road and the meal that carry you there. Do not despise the small steps, for they are the foundation of the great leaps. To wake early, to drive with purpose, to eat with gratitude—these are acts of preparation, and preparation is the mother of joy.

The lesson is clear: if you wish to taste the heights of life—whether in sport, in work, or in spirit—you must first honor the disciplines that precede them. Rise early, prepare well, and savor even the simplest of provisions, for they are the fuel of greatness. Let your life be like Williams’ journey: marked not only by the thrill of the mountain but by the beauty of the road, the ritual of the morning, and the quiet grace of a warm breakfast before the day’s adventure.

So let your action be this: live with rhythm, with patience, with readiness. When joy calls you to the mountain, answer it not only with eagerness but with discipline. Wake early, travel steadily, and nourish your body and spirit with gratitude. For in this way, every day may carry the balance of labor and delight, of discipline and reward, of road and summit. And thus you will discover, as Sunita Williams teaches, that the glory of the mountain is already hidden in the simple blessing of the morning.