"You are living the life I always wanted."
HA! If only you knew!!!! Yes, I feel proud that you've said this and for a moment, I even forget the truth and the secret side of me. And yes, someone asking if they can publish a piece of my writing feels GREAT. But I also know the cost and the secret side of me. The vision that blurs around my periphery because I am concentrating-focused, racing from thing-to-thing-to-thing, trying to hold it all together and I care so much about it all that I can't bear to drop a single shard cuz I'm sure the whole caboodle would be shards if a strong enough wind came by. I do love it all: grad classes, new teaching job, MY STUDENTS (are awesome times 10,000,000!), my colleagues, my family (oh yes, they're in there somewhere), my mountains. The outside look is happy, happy, happy cuz I do love it all.
But the cost. Man, I know the cost. Nights like last night where I cannot drag myself to the pool. Instead my car steers itself to Target and the Oreos are open before I leave the parking lot. Potpies ensue - comfort food for the frenetic. I allow it. One night of total abandon. (I know, sexy abandon this. Feel free to add yoga pants and baggy sweatshirt for the full effect.) That somehow recharges my batteries and makes me able to get up the next day, get on my bike and charge uphill (yes, it is literally 5 miles uphill to my school) to see my students again and teach them math and writing and music and... life. Followed by the downhill ride where I plunk again in front of this laptop and respond, respond, respond to grad level reading but connect it to me. I have to make it who I am. Then to eat and exercise and have any kind of social life that is permitted at this point.
HA. If only you knew, colleague of mine... the secret side of me.
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
The Picture of Fulfillment
Today, I walked into an eighth grade classroom where "my" kids were. The students I had last year. There was a groundswell of "Ms. Triiiiteacher, Ms. Triiiteacher..." And smiles. Let me tell you about the smiles. Every one of their faces swiveled in my direction, lit up in shining recognition.
I felt famous today. And gratified and fulfilled.
I said a brief piece about how I'd be co-teaching in that particular class two days a week (more cheers from the crowd) and then yielded the stage back to the eighth grade teacher. Throughout the class period, I worked my way through that crowd, asking about this one's horse, that one's favorite book from last year, checking for pretty shoes on the girl who shared my shoe fetish... reconnecting with the kids to whom I grew close last year. I have a great job.
It makes me more committed as I start my new role this year. I am teaching English to speakers of other languages. In this role, I get to be with many, many students across three grade levels. I have an opportunity to be present, to weave together my knowledge of 11-14 year-olds and my different areas of expertise: math, science, literacy, Spanish. I have the chance to do it all.
Vow: I am going to be the best, hardest-working, biggest-hearted, most attuned advocate and teacher for these students. I want them to excel, I want them to feel great, I want so much for them... let me see the way to give them the best in me.
I felt famous today. And gratified and fulfilled.
I said a brief piece about how I'd be co-teaching in that particular class two days a week (more cheers from the crowd) and then yielded the stage back to the eighth grade teacher. Throughout the class period, I worked my way through that crowd, asking about this one's horse, that one's favorite book from last year, checking for pretty shoes on the girl who shared my shoe fetish... reconnecting with the kids to whom I grew close last year. I have a great job.
It makes me more committed as I start my new role this year. I am teaching English to speakers of other languages. In this role, I get to be with many, many students across three grade levels. I have an opportunity to be present, to weave together my knowledge of 11-14 year-olds and my different areas of expertise: math, science, literacy, Spanish. I have the chance to do it all.
Vow: I am going to be the best, hardest-working, biggest-hearted, most attuned advocate and teacher for these students. I want them to excel, I want them to feel great, I want so much for them... let me see the way to give them the best in me.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
The Diamond Necklace
“You wander from room to room
Hunting for the diamond necklace
That is already around your neck!”
-Rumi
I find the diamond necklace
In the scramble up a chimney
to a summit block
and friends
In the easing of slight nausea
as I descend to 10,000 feet
In the full body wag
of the creek over rocks
In the sight of a wild rose
and the rush of my dad
posing by a rose for Mom
backpack on his 70 year-old back
His goofiness
His steadfast neediness
The sight of a Shooting Star
and hours later humming
"Don't you know that you are a shooting star
Don't you know? Woah, yeah!"
And feeling it must be me
In sunlight on my face
daydreaming on the narrow gauge train
I reach up and feel --
Yes. Necklace.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Daisy
Today I want to write about the way that grief inhabits your body. The way you breathe around a lump in your throat, the way you hold the steering wheel and your shoulders hurt, the way your chin feels wobbly. The way your stomach has that sinking feeling all the time walking around. People say grief gets better with time.
In a way it is true. In another way, it is not. There is vestigial grief, vestigial digits and fingers of hurt that come back. My sister and her husband have to put down their dog this week. She has been their dog for 13 years. She was young with them when their marriage was young. They were exploring California after they left Wisconsin, taking her on hikes to explore mountains and beaches and the American River. She was with them when 9/11 happened and comforted my sister when her husband was traveling.
I have my own memories of Daisy. She comforted me. When I first moved out here after my divorce, I lived with them for a period of time. One night I was crying, silent tears rolling down my cheeks. I was trying to be private about it. I was in the basement away from everybody. Except Daisy. She came down to check on me and with an empathy I've seen only in her, she laid her head on my knee and just rested it there.
As I grieve Daisy, I feel the old pain inhabit my body. So quickly the body relapses into the interstices of that old grief. I feel for this loss and it feels like the old loss. I feel for my sister and her husband. To contemplate that most horrible thing. Putting down your friend, letting her go. There is the decision-making, the second-guessing, the effort to be rational when your emotions are cloudy. Then there's the pain of watching her in pain and wondering if you've done it soon enough. It is a horrific proposition.
And they will miss her. There is that side yet to come.
There is a time-sucking quality to grief, especially in stores. Scene today: waking up from reverie so many minutes later in REI wondering what it was again I was looking for. Passed the dog section. That's what set it off. When I divorced, seeing willow trees set me off. Heh. Breathing set me off then.
I get why people have to die. I mean, how many layers of experience can the body hold? Yet then, I feel sad for Daisy dying. She won't get to see all the beautiful things in the world anymore. The hikes, the smells of piney woods, the splash of the creek, the doggy joy in catching a tennis ball.
The joys. The time when Sis and Brother-in-Law sent me on a 12 mile hike in California with Daisy as my guide. I was new to mountains, new to hiking, new, new, new. Daisy was my seasoned guide and boon companion, trotting by my side, carrying her joy in the loll of her tongue, the wag of her tail, the bounding steps of exploration. Crossing a stream, she would fetch a rock from the stream and bring it for me to throw again. Pure frolic.
The same joy I feel in water. And that's true too. As I carry the interstices of my old griefs, my body and mind carry the remnants of past joys as well. On the water kayaking with my sisters earlier this month, I remembered learning to kayak from someone who loved me. When you learn to paddle from a lover, your memories are of chasing moonlight across a lake, of ducking into "garages" made by bent willow trees, of stopping and kissing, pulling up alongside. That magical, magnetic pull. I remember nearly dying waiting for him to do the car drop and come back so we could be together. Of watching him log-jump, of being his cheerleader, his confidante. Of him watching me dive to the bottom of the river, running my fingers through the sand-rolling, pebble-running bottom. Coming up for air and his face, his smile. And the knowledge that he would be there, enjoying my joy.
I get why people have to die at a certain age. I mean, how many layers of experience can the body hold? There must come a time at which the interstices of joy and grief have carved deep enough wrinkles into the skin and that is the time.
Daisy has reached that time. In dog years, she is 91 and cancer has eaten up her body and carved an end point to her time. I salute the layers of joy - and grief - she has given my family.
In a way it is true. In another way, it is not. There is vestigial grief, vestigial digits and fingers of hurt that come back. My sister and her husband have to put down their dog this week. She has been their dog for 13 years. She was young with them when their marriage was young. They were exploring California after they left Wisconsin, taking her on hikes to explore mountains and beaches and the American River. She was with them when 9/11 happened and comforted my sister when her husband was traveling.I have my own memories of Daisy. She comforted me. When I first moved out here after my divorce, I lived with them for a period of time. One night I was crying, silent tears rolling down my cheeks. I was trying to be private about it. I was in the basement away from everybody. Except Daisy. She came down to check on me and with an empathy I've seen only in her, she laid her head on my knee and just rested it there.
As I grieve Daisy, I feel the old pain inhabit my body. So quickly the body relapses into the interstices of that old grief. I feel for this loss and it feels like the old loss. I feel for my sister and her husband. To contemplate that most horrible thing. Putting down your friend, letting her go. There is the decision-making, the second-guessing, the effort to be rational when your emotions are cloudy. Then there's the pain of watching her in pain and wondering if you've done it soon enough. It is a horrific proposition.And they will miss her. There is that side yet to come.
There is a time-sucking quality to grief, especially in stores. Scene today: waking up from reverie so many minutes later in REI wondering what it was again I was looking for. Passed the dog section. That's what set it off. When I divorced, seeing willow trees set me off. Heh. Breathing set me off then.
I get why people have to die. I mean, how many layers of experience can the body hold? Yet then, I feel sad for Daisy dying. She won't get to see all the beautiful things in the world anymore. The hikes, the smells of piney woods, the splash of the creek, the doggy joy in catching a tennis ball.
The joys. The time when Sis and Brother-in-Law sent me on a 12 mile hike in California with Daisy as my guide. I was new to mountains, new to hiking, new, new, new. Daisy was my seasoned guide and boon companion, trotting by my side, carrying her joy in the loll of her tongue, the wag of her tail, the bounding steps of exploration. Crossing a stream, she would fetch a rock from the stream and bring it for me to throw again. Pure frolic.
The same joy I feel in water. And that's true too. As I carry the interstices of my old griefs, my body and mind carry the remnants of past joys as well. On the water kayaking with my sisters earlier this month, I remembered learning to kayak from someone who loved me. When you learn to paddle from a lover, your memories are of chasing moonlight across a lake, of ducking into "garages" made by bent willow trees, of stopping and kissing, pulling up alongside. That magical, magnetic pull. I remember nearly dying waiting for him to do the car drop and come back so we could be together. Of watching him log-jump, of being his cheerleader, his confidante. Of him watching me dive to the bottom of the river, running my fingers through the sand-rolling, pebble-running bottom. Coming up for air and his face, his smile. And the knowledge that he would be there, enjoying my joy.
I get why people have to die at a certain age. I mean, how many layers of experience can the body hold? There must come a time at which the interstices of joy and grief have carved deep enough wrinkles into the skin and that is the time.Daisy has reached that time. In dog years, she is 91 and cancer has eaten up her body and carved an end point to her time. I salute the layers of joy - and grief - she has given my family.
Monday, June 23, 2014
Men Are Like Fishing
Since I’ve gotten back from my trip (three days ago) and re-posted my pictures on the online dating site, I have “talked” to several men. One is a quick hitter; he swooped in, liked me, blew up my inbox. We flirted hard for two hours. Good sense of humor, this one. Then *poof.* He disappeared. Like the turtles who nabbed my mom’s nightcrawlers, this one returned to the muddy depths with all my bait. *Sigh.*
Another is a professional correspondent. This type comes on slow, like 3-inch crappies working a 5-inch crawler. He nibbles around the edges of conversation. He continues to nibble. When I go on a trip, he grows fonder. I hear from him 4-5 times per day. When I’m in town, we set a blistering pace of 3-4 messages per week. These men (for the current correspondent is not an anomaly; he is a type) amuse me. I picture them with their iPhone in hand, thumbs working away, smiling and flirting. Glancing down, you see their feet - the polar opposite of all that activity above - potted in clay.
Others are the kind you land. They can handle the bait - 8 inch crappie on a jig. This kind can even follow the bait. Two of my 8-inch crappie have checked in with me since I returned, asking if I am now ready to meet. Then you disaggregate… one is a slow burner. I said yes, I can meet and gave him two nights that will work. Wait for it, wait for it… no reply yet.
The other was quick to choose a night, now is choosing our venue and time. I may actually land one!
And then what??
More types to come!
Monday, June 09, 2014
My Track is Good
That statement is true.
I took a hike up Herman Gulch today and broke the trail. It started with just some snow, but soon became all snowy and postholey.
I got my bearings on the stream at first (keep it to your left) and then the jaggedy peaks that peeked out in occasional clearings in the forest.
And I landed on the top, turned right, and landed at the lake! I wasn't sure the whole time, and I am 100% sure I didn't stick to the designated trail, but I did land - as if helicoptered in - at the intended destination. It was beautiful. I feel so proud of where I've come with my navigating skills. Used to be I couldn't find my way out of a paper bag. Now, I can actually tell people, like the couple visiting from Ohio who followed me... "My track is good!"
This applies to other areas in my life. I feel like I'm living so non-traditionally and like there are no role models. Single, mountaineering, independent females were not the women around whom I grew up. I now take snippets from everyone around me, but sometimes, it has felt downright lonely and like I'm pioneering. Sometimes I've felt like my track is not good. Sometimes I had no sense of my life, my track, my legacy at all.
But I'm getting there. And I want to be there. It was such a joy to see the Ohioans on my descent and reassure them that my track would take them to the lake. I want to have something to offer. And I have, just as with my hike today, taken some younger women (and climbing men) under my wing. I'm starting to sense that, in many senses, "My track is good."
 |
| Some snow, lots of beauty at the start. |
 |
| Gushing stream. |
I got my bearings on the stream at first (keep it to your left) and then the jaggedy peaks that peeked out in occasional clearings in the forest.
 |
| My track! I broke right on up this steep snow slope. |
And I landed on the top, turned right, and landed at the lake! I wasn't sure the whole time, and I am 100% sure I didn't stick to the designated trail, but I did land - as if helicoptered in - at the intended destination. It was beautiful. I feel so proud of where I've come with my navigating skills. Used to be I couldn't find my way out of a paper bag. Now, I can actually tell people, like the couple visiting from Ohio who followed me... "My track is good!"
 |
| Plucky, pioneering Globeflower |
 |
| The snow is melting fast. Trail clearing in the scant 2.5 hours since my first picture. |
Monday, June 02, 2014
To Do List: Fall in Love
Okay, so I also have on it to clean the fridge and send invitations to a dinner party I'm hosting. But really, falling in love is at the top.
To that end, I've started online dating. Again. I gave it a whirl for three months last November after I finally decided to make the Convenience Man my ex-Convenience Man. Online dating was... interesting. So interesting that I stopped in March because I needed a break.
Now it's June and I am ready to undertake it all again. The messages in my inbox proclaiming that I'm all that on a cracker (OK, those aren't the exact words. They are that colorful. Just more R-rated.)
And then the times I reach out to a promising man and never. hear. back.
That's what was so difficult the first time around. The people I liked didn't like me, and the people I didn't like seemed to think I was hot stuff. It was downright disheartening.
So what am I going to differently? I am going to really try this time.
Please laugh at that.
But in a way, I mean it. I'm going to stick it out and meet lots of people and steel myself for disappointments and keep it all in perspective. I really would like to meet someone who was right.
Ideal? A climber, a peak bagger, with a side passion for relaxing like a fiend after the hard stuff is done. A thinker, a reader, with a passion for laughing and banter. Someone for whom I want to dress in pretty clothes and go get sushi. Yet he thinks I'm just as striking in my climbing gear and harness.
What a sweet dream. Makes me smile just writing it.
*Sigh*
What I'd settle for? Someone who would support my passions and let me support his. Someone who fit with my friends. And was sorta hot. Or really hot. I'd be okay with that too.
What I have to wade through to find him... people who like my pictures but don't like to hike. Or don't like my brains. Or that I don't want kids, or that I'm an atheist, or that I'm... me. At the base of it, that is what I have to not take personally. I am me. And some guys are just not going to be into me. I have to be into me enough to hold out hope that there is someone out there who is just as (even more??) into me than me.
And that I dig him like crazy. I wanna dig somebody. It's such a great feeling to love someone and want to treat them like gold. To anticipate, to read them, to want their happiness like I want my own. To help them get it, to make them laugh, smile, sigh, dream bigger... Yeah, I'm ready. It might take 2 dates, it might take 200, wherein enters my endurance training, right? I'm ready, set... GO!
To that end, I've started online dating. Again. I gave it a whirl for three months last November after I finally decided to make the Convenience Man my ex-Convenience Man. Online dating was... interesting. So interesting that I stopped in March because I needed a break.
Now it's June and I am ready to undertake it all again. The messages in my inbox proclaiming that I'm all that on a cracker (OK, those aren't the exact words. They are that colorful. Just more R-rated.)
And then the times I reach out to a promising man and never. hear. back.
That's what was so difficult the first time around. The people I liked didn't like me, and the people I didn't like seemed to think I was hot stuff. It was downright disheartening.
So what am I going to differently? I am going to really try this time.
Please laugh at that.
But in a way, I mean it. I'm going to stick it out and meet lots of people and steel myself for disappointments and keep it all in perspective. I really would like to meet someone who was right.
Ideal? A climber, a peak bagger, with a side passion for relaxing like a fiend after the hard stuff is done. A thinker, a reader, with a passion for laughing and banter. Someone for whom I want to dress in pretty clothes and go get sushi. Yet he thinks I'm just as striking in my climbing gear and harness.
What a sweet dream. Makes me smile just writing it.
*Sigh*
What I'd settle for? Someone who would support my passions and let me support his. Someone who fit with my friends. And was sorta hot. Or really hot. I'd be okay with that too.
What I have to wade through to find him... people who like my pictures but don't like to hike. Or don't like my brains. Or that I don't want kids, or that I'm an atheist, or that I'm... me. At the base of it, that is what I have to not take personally. I am me. And some guys are just not going to be into me. I have to be into me enough to hold out hope that there is someone out there who is just as (even more??) into me than me.
And that I dig him like crazy. I wanna dig somebody. It's such a great feeling to love someone and want to treat them like gold. To anticipate, to read them, to want their happiness like I want my own. To help them get it, to make them laugh, smile, sigh, dream bigger... Yeah, I'm ready. It might take 2 dates, it might take 200, wherein enters my endurance training, right? I'm ready, set... GO!
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Eleven Hours, Three Minutes
Eleven hours, three minutes to pull off ascents of 13er Mount Lady Washington and Longs Peak on Monday, Memorial Day. It was beautiful and grueling and scary and fulfilling. I can't wipe the grin off my face even today.
We cruised up the first 2.5 miles, me getting the scope of my cousin whose motto is "Fast equals safe." He lives by it. I am usually not the slow one on a hike. He left me huffing and puffing, but also determined to hang and not cave in to burning lungs.
By Chasm Lake, our snow climb began. We rounded the lake instead of crossing it. On the far side, we heard sounds that would accompany us the rest of the day. The sounds of snow and rock fall off of Longs' Diamond Face. We heard it and would spot the area and could not believe that what looked like a dusting of snow and dust particles could echo off the walls and ricochet sounds to our ears. It was intimidating. We decided to stay well away from the face for our approach. Which meant climbing straight up Mount Lady Washington's steep snow. It was so steep that snow balls were peeling free of the snow pack and rolling down as we climbed up. Gravity's victims all. We achieved the Lady and snapped a few pictures, ate some calories. We took some time to case our remaining route.
We saw snow. Lots of snow. But a mountain does not get climbed by looking at what lies ahead. After spare minutes, we descended to the saddle between the peaks. The real ascent began.
I thought I had become familiar with steep 'n' deep snow as we ascended that first snowfield up Lady Washington. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!
I had known nothing. This was brutally steep, with sections where I watched my 6'2" cousin sink to his thighs. Conversation was sparse, though at one point he felt it necessary to excuse a stop, "I can't see. My sunglasses are running with sweat." He lead for most of the way, but when he stopped for particularly long periods of time, I'd catch him and offer to lead.
I quickly realized how following in his footsteps, brutal though it was, was child's play to breaking the
trail. I developed a method of motion. I jammed my two trekking poles into the snow ahead, weighted them and moved one foot, then the other. Sometimes my foot plant would sink only six inches - HALLELUJAH! Other times it would sink six inches and then with a knee-wrenching thud, give another 6-18 inches. I usually managed another plant of the poles and a shift of each foot before I needed to pause to breathe. I allowed for 5-10 good yogi breaths, mindful to open my chest and let the oxygen in. On the sinking steps, I managed only one pole-plant, the need to breathe prohibiting further movement.
Then there was the fear. The rock and ice dustings continued echoing around the chasm. As before, we were in such steep snow that snowballs kept rolling down around us. One came with such speed, I heard it whoosh past my helmet. It had several friends that broke loose at this time too, giving the impression that the mountain itself was rolling, dozens of ping pong snowballs rolling down on me. I needed to speak. I turned back at John to ask, "How you feeling about this snow?" He was brief, "It's good." That was enough for me to keep going, and going fast. Getting off of this quickly would mean safety and the end of ragged fear breathing.
I lead a good 100 yards until we we reached the rock where our technical climb should start. Two right-facing corners jutted out from the snow field. This climb goes as 5.4 in the book. We put on harnesses and crampons and swapped out our poles for ice axes. John took the lead, edging his way along the rock, digging in crampons and ice axe. He moved quickly up the first block and turned back to ask if I wanted to rope up. He had made it look easy. I refused the offer and started my own ascent.
My first five or so moves felt secure and I enjoyed the feeling of vertical upward motion. Then I hit a thin part. "Uh, John, how did you do this?"
"It's thin, but there's a good pick with your right hand and a good left toe in the corner. Toe in so you can feel it, then step up slowly to test it." It's such a slow-motion act, climbing is. You incrementally shift your weight into the ball of your foot and then roll ever-so-gently into the toe of your foot. All the while screamin' Jesus in your head, hoping it will hold.
It held. I marveled at the trust I could place in the metal. The tips of my crampons and the tip of my ice pick in those teeny crevices. I was denied the security of skin contact. There was a layer of remove between me and the rock, metal touching rock versus the boot or hand. It is so much scarier. But doable.
We continued to climb the seventy technical feet without roping up. There were two more thin sections to negotiate - the first John coached me through, the second I gathered my forces and figured out.
At last we topped out. I saw John ahead of me - ON FLAT GROUND!!! He saw that I was okay and charged toward some summit rocks, seeking shelter from the blowing winds that are always present on a mountain. I was feeling cold, had to go to the bathroom, and was more weary than I'd realized. I started to follow him and noticed I was missing my right crampon. I called his name to let him know I was going back to look for it, but my voice was lost in the wind. I saw where he seemed to settle behind some summit rocks and turned to find the crampon, hoping against hope it was somewhere on the flat section, not down in that technical section.
It was. I had dropped it right after topping out. With relief, I scooped it up and now, stopped, thought to go to the bathroom, remove my harness, and put on some warm layers. As I was doing this, the clouds that had been approaching arrived, swirling the peak in a white mist with flurries of snow. I couldn't see John and panicked at the thought of being separated. I quickly stowed my harness and the crampon, not taking the time to put it back on. I followed John's track - the only ones on the summit that day - to where he rested behind a rock. We high-fived and bolted calories, feeling the urgency to get off the mountain. It was 1:00 with less-than-ideal weather and a serious descent to undertake.
Without speaking, we'd both arrived at the same conclusion. There was no way we could descend as we'd ascended. Snow covered the rappel rings that would have allowed us a cushy rappel down the technical section. We'd have to descend the standard route. Which meant more steep snow and exposure through the Homestretch, the Narrows, and then the Trough, all the way back to the Keyhole. Gracelessly and with no pride, I backed down the Homestretch, digging my axe in above me and backing my feet down. John walked forward down the whole thing, stopping to check I was OK before beginning his next section. Route finding was tricky in sections; we grinned madly anytime we spotted one of Longs' famous bulls-eyes. We reached the Keyhole and were relieved to pick up someone else's track to follow through the Boulder Field. We took off our crampons for the first time in hours, and made the reverse poles/ice axe swap.
It was a cruise the rest of the way out. We relived the climb, talking about the things we'd both noticed - notably the two loud cracks of thunder - but hadn't acknowledged at the time. It was funny how we'd had many parallel thoughts but had needed to breathe more than talk. We made up for it on the descent, talking the whole way. First about the climb and mountaineering, then talking life.
We two cousins grew up separated by 1000 miles and a seven-year age difference. We had scant childhood memories of the other, but used those Longs miles to fill in the years with sibling stories, parent stories, and adult life stories. We covered a lot of territory and I added my respect for him as a person to my respect for him as a mountaineer.
The giddiness that had simmered on the hike set in in the car and then percolated to the top when we reached Lyons and lunch. Our "we're safe" texts sent, we ordered and drank and ate, tasting the best food ever. Which is anything you eat after an 11 hour climb.
And here I find myself, days later, alternately grinning and wiping the sweat from my hands as I write this. Afloat on a cloud of... achievement, pride, knowledge that I pushed and my body and spirit rose to the occasion? Yes.
We cruised up the first 2.5 miles, me getting the scope of my cousin whose motto is "Fast equals safe." He lives by it. I am usually not the slow one on a hike. He left me huffing and puffing, but also determined to hang and not cave in to burning lungs.
 |
| Snowballs on the way up Mount Lady Washington. |
We saw snow. Lots of snow. But a mountain does not get climbed by looking at what lies ahead. After spare minutes, we descended to the saddle between the peaks. The real ascent began.
I thought I had become familiar with steep 'n' deep snow as we ascended that first snowfield up Lady Washington. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!
I had known nothing. This was brutally steep, with sections where I watched my 6'2" cousin sink to his thighs. Conversation was sparse, though at one point he felt it necessary to excuse a stop, "I can't see. My sunglasses are running with sweat." He lead for most of the way, but when he stopped for particularly long periods of time, I'd catch him and offer to lead.
I quickly realized how following in his footsteps, brutal though it was, was child's play to breaking the
 |
| We ascended along the right flank of the Diamond. |
Then there was the fear. The rock and ice dustings continued echoing around the chasm. As before, we were in such steep snow that snowballs kept rolling down around us. One came with such speed, I heard it whoosh past my helmet. It had several friends that broke loose at this time too, giving the impression that the mountain itself was rolling, dozens of ping pong snowballs rolling down on me. I needed to speak. I turned back at John to ask, "How you feeling about this snow?" He was brief, "It's good." That was enough for me to keep going, and going fast. Getting off of this quickly would mean safety and the end of ragged fear breathing.
I lead a good 100 yards until we we reached the rock where our technical climb should start. Two right-facing corners jutted out from the snow field. This climb goes as 5.4 in the book. We put on harnesses and crampons and swapped out our poles for ice axes. John took the lead, edging his way along the rock, digging in crampons and ice axe. He moved quickly up the first block and turned back to ask if I wanted to rope up. He had made it look easy. I refused the offer and started my own ascent.
My first five or so moves felt secure and I enjoyed the feeling of vertical upward motion. Then I hit a thin part. "Uh, John, how did you do this?"
"It's thin, but there's a good pick with your right hand and a good left toe in the corner. Toe in so you can feel it, then step up slowly to test it." It's such a slow-motion act, climbing is. You incrementally shift your weight into the ball of your foot and then roll ever-so-gently into the toe of your foot. All the while screamin' Jesus in your head, hoping it will hold.
It held. I marveled at the trust I could place in the metal. The tips of my crampons and the tip of my ice pick in those teeny crevices. I was denied the security of skin contact. There was a layer of remove between me and the rock, metal touching rock versus the boot or hand. It is so much scarier. But doable.
We continued to climb the seventy technical feet without roping up. There were two more thin sections to negotiate - the first John coached me through, the second I gathered my forces and figured out.
 |
| Left flank of Longs |
It was. I had dropped it right after topping out. With relief, I scooped it up and now, stopped, thought to go to the bathroom, remove my harness, and put on some warm layers. As I was doing this, the clouds that had been approaching arrived, swirling the peak in a white mist with flurries of snow. I couldn't see John and panicked at the thought of being separated. I quickly stowed my harness and the crampon, not taking the time to put it back on. I followed John's track - the only ones on the summit that day - to where he rested behind a rock. We high-fived and bolted calories, feeling the urgency to get off the mountain. It was 1:00 with less-than-ideal weather and a serious descent to undertake.
 |
| Another beautiful pic that doesn't match the story. Sorry, no pics from the heavy breathing sections. Need I say: oxygen took precedence. |
It was a cruise the rest of the way out. We relived the climb, talking about the things we'd both noticed - notably the two loud cracks of thunder - but hadn't acknowledged at the time. It was funny how we'd had many parallel thoughts but had needed to breathe more than talk. We made up for it on the descent, talking the whole way. First about the climb and mountaineering, then talking life.
We two cousins grew up separated by 1000 miles and a seven-year age difference. We had scant childhood memories of the other, but used those Longs miles to fill in the years with sibling stories, parent stories, and adult life stories. We covered a lot of territory and I added my respect for him as a person to my respect for him as a mountaineer.
The giddiness that had simmered on the hike set in in the car and then percolated to the top when we reached Lyons and lunch. Our "we're safe" texts sent, we ordered and drank and ate, tasting the best food ever. Which is anything you eat after an 11 hour climb.
And here I find myself, days later, alternately grinning and wiping the sweat from my hands as I write this. Afloat on a cloud of... achievement, pride, knowledge that I pushed and my body and spirit rose to the occasion? Yes.
Sunday, December 01, 2013
Mount Audubon Trip Report
 |
| Climb that right shoulder to 13,223 feet |
I started early cuz that's when I woke up. I had been trying to decide on a trail and had seven marked. It was not without difficulty that I settled on going to the Brainard Lake Rec Area outside of Nederland. Since I was going solo, I had resigned myself to doing just a couple of the lakes; stay low, play it safe. However, there was more than a touch of drool on the page describing the route to 13er, Mt. Audubon.
But, only a crazy person solos big mountains in the winter. I took no axe and just enough water/food for a moderate trip. Content. Safe. Low. Safe. Content. Blah.
I made it to the TH at 9AM and realized that I had given no one the specifics of my itinerary and that I had no cell signal. Whoops. Parked next to me were three late 20s guys from Boulder. They got out and had ice axes. Cue drool! I quickly ascertained that they were doing Mt. Audubon. With a backward glance at those axes, I trudged down my flat, well-trammeled trail to the lakes.
Turns out... the Mt. Audubon route starts that same way. The boys caught me at about 2 miles in, and reading my expression accurately, told me I could hang with them and they'd spot me on the mountain. One even offered me his axe. It was a Black Diamond. Should I have said, "Yes"??
Turns out... I don't have a lot in common with 20-something guys from Boulder. I can only laugh so many times at Audubon pronounced "Autobahn" in an exaggerated Arnold accent. When the boys stopped to stash their beer, I forged ahead, thinking they would catch me. They never did. But the idea was planted and the mountain was there. Itching for my snowshoes to scratch its icy spine.
Well, that mountain just kept going up and up. There was a snowshoe trench all the way to treeline so route-finding was a gimme. Once at treeline, the wind picked up and kept increasing. It scoured the rocks and snow, covering tracks of people who'd gone before. No longer a gimme. I assessed the weather; it was gorgeous with just one itsy-bitsy cloud in the sky. My water and food were holding out. I had only daylight and my energy level as limits.
About halfway between treeline and the summit, I spotted a hiker ahead with his pants down. I decided it was a good time for a snack and to check for cell reception. (Nil.) After an appropriate interval, I approached this 70-ish year old man with tobacco stains in his beard and mustache. I asked him if everything was all right and he responded, "Oh, I just had to take a dump. I sent my partner on ahead. You can follow his tracks."
Alrighty then.
I continued climbing, finally able to lose the snowshoes and be lighter on my feet. I avoided snowfields and wound a circuitous route up the mountain. The wind was steadily increasing as I climbed and I started getting a little rattled. I stopped at a relatively still spot and did a risk-analysis. I still had no cell signal. It was 1:00 in the afternoon so I'd been on the route for 4 hours. The summit was still a good hour away. I would descend faster than I'd climbed but who knew when the sun would set with the peaks all around this area? Did I want to be searching my way back to that trough, potentially in the dark, alone, at 12000 feet? No.
I decided to turn back. Upon deciding, I felt relieved. I passed Tobaccy-Man, asked him again about his plan, and continued on my way. I made it back to the TH at 4:20. Turns out that hour to the summit would have been iffy.
Autobahn, I'll be back.
Sunday, August 04, 2013
The Gift
As a kid watching
of all things
the Ms America pageant
I knew it was about something deeper
As a kid reading
of Wilbur and Charlotte
sobbing experiencing
E.B. White's gift
I knew it was about something deeper
As a kid sitting
in the high school auditorium
listening to Lisa Borman's soprano
echo through that dingy space
I knew it was about something deeper
As a woman
hiking Longs
the breeze riffling my skin
sagey scents tickling my nose
scenery saturated with mountains and sun
endorphins coursing through my veins
strong legs wanting more, more, higher
I know it is about something deeper
It is about beauty
Seeing it
It is everywhere
Appreciating it
Creating it
Oh, the ache to create it
to give to other human hearts
that throb of something beyond self
of all things
the Ms America pageant
I knew it was about something deeper
As a kid reading
of Wilbur and Charlotte
sobbing experiencing
E.B. White's gift
I knew it was about something deeper
As a kid sitting
in the high school auditorium
listening to Lisa Borman's soprano
echo through that dingy space
I knew it was about something deeper
As a womanhiking Longs
the breeze riffling my skin
sagey scents tickling my nose
scenery saturated with mountains and sun
endorphins coursing through my veins
strong legs wanting more, more, higher
I know it is about something deeper
It is about beauty
Seeing it
It is everywhere
Appreciating it
Creating it
Oh, the ache to create it
to give to other human hearts
that throb of something beyond self
Friday, August 02, 2013
Yosemite Day 1: Great White Book
 |
| Route goes up the huge flake on the right. |
At the top of the class 4 approach, my partner built an anchor, placing climbing gear into cracks in the rock -- three to protect an upward force, one to accommodate a downward pull. We then attached to these and yippee; we were protected! We also tied to each other. For the next four pitches, we stayed tethered together, a maximum of 60 meters of rope between us. We did our checks and Victor started up the first pitch. He managed to place protection and reached the next belay station without issue. My turn to climb! My gut clenched, my tummy flipped, and I realized that even though I'd peed no more than 60 minutes ago, I needed to go again. I yelled up to Victor, "I'm gonna pee!"
Laughter erupted from some climbers I couldn't see, but now placed to our left. I was pretty comfie on that ledge because peeing at this point involved taking off my harness, the point of my attachment to Victor, to my anchors -- to any and all things keeping me on this 60-foot high ledge. Except my deft feet in my most excellent Mythos climbing shoes. I shimmied out of the harness, sidled away from the rope, and relieved my bladder, losing some of my anxiety in the process. I am also pretty comfie peeing in front of strangers. As I squatted, I noticed a fisherman and a male tourist in the parking lot looking up the dome. I ignored them, not caring if they turned away to allow me privacy or got out the binoculars. Necessity and mothers and all that.
 |
| Looking over my toes at what we've climbed so far. |
Then came pitch three. I realized that everything I thought was gut-wrenching up to that point became null and void. I watched Victor pull farther and farther away from me up a super-wide chimney, in which he could place no gear. In which he could place NO gear. Gah. A climber wants a calm head. My head was Manhattan at rush hour, a steam locomotive crashing into a Boeing 747, the lawn guys at my condo doing the grass with leaf-blowers (heinous things, those). I had every kind of worry there was, a chorus of what-ifs and Jeez, is there really no protection??? I had visions of that chimney purging my partner, sending him plummeting past me. The horror of thinking about watching him fall nauseated me. I tried to bring myself back to the here and now, to keep my mind on the belay and envision myself hauling in rope like a madwoman if he slipped. My mind rocketed wildly from rational movement-anticipation to gut-clenching anxiety.
(Later, when Victor topped out and I began to climb, I acquainted myself with a new body odor -- the stink of my fear sweat. It is different than exertion sweat or the sweat of a hot day at the beach. It is tangier and sourer; it smells like panic.)
Victor stopped to rest at about thirty feet up. I dared to ask how he was doing. "OK," he said. "No place for pro but the climbing's easy." After breathing for bare moments, he moved up again. I was relieved when he finally left the chimney and even more relieved when he turned a corner and was out of sight onto a block with presumably more options. There were. He yelled, "I've got a piece! And it'll hold a freight train!" Shortly thereafter, he built an anchor and it was my turn to climb.
I felt like a kid at fat camp ascending that chimney. You grind your hip against the edge of the chimney and push your feet against the opposing wall. I braced one hand on each opposing edge. There weren't holds, just friction. The low angle allowed for that force to hold me in place and even to move up. But it was strenuous! As I huffed and puffed my way up, I was glad for that freight train piece of pro.
At the next belay station, I congratulated Victor on his strong head. We exchanged pleasantries, shared water, and inspected the anchor system. We also noted the few drops of rain and increasing cloud cover. Victor got moving, pulling a roof right off the belay and then traversing out of my sight. I started to feel a little nervous when he yelled down to me, "I've protected a traverse for you really well. There's a good piece at the start and at the end!" Hmm... when one traverses, one cleans the gear at the start, so a catch really depends on the second piece at the far end of the traverse, which means.... you get to be a human pendulum. To add interest, the sprinkles of rain were increasing. Victor was practically running now, pulling out slack as fast as I could feed it. Within moments, he had me on belay.
I saw the reason for his haste to get off the dome when I pulled the roof. Ahead of me was about 20 feet of seemingly-blank traverse. And it was not getting any grippier with the rain. Victor coached me to take my time and feel my way across. I whimpered a bit and "guhh'ed" and "I'm scared!ed" but I kept moving. We needed to get off of that slab before the rain started in earnest. I made it to him pretty expeditiously (in spite of the emo output). We quickly decided that rapping the route to 4th class slab made no sense in the rain. According to the guidebook, the other descent option required some route-finding but was safer in the rain. We scrambled up to a headwall and found a way over it and... hit cairns! The whole descent was well-cairned and beautiful. We even felt safe enough to welcome the rain for the sake of drought-stricken California.
I ended the day with unequivocal appreciation for my climbing partner. When I finished pitch 4 and we were safely descending, Victor remarked that he wanted to get that thing done so that I could get moving and get it done quickly too. He was worried about me getting it done before the rain moved in; he knew I'd be sketched out. When you're attached to another human being with an umbilical cord of rope on a 450-foot granite dome, you want that human being to say things like that.
Day 1 ended, I felt uncertain about my relationship with climbing. It was too scary to be fun, but too exhilarating and gratifying to be dismissed. This love-hate question would be kicked around for the rest of the week...
Monday, July 29, 2013
Convenience Foods
Convenience food has its plusses and minuses. On the plus side... Shoot! It's convenient. It can be found anywhere at any time the appetite strikes. It is at your beck and call. It is consistent. A McDonald's burger is a Micky D's burger in Denver, Colorado, the same as it is in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. It is easy and simple. There is no preparation. There is no messy clean-up. It is mindless. It is the meal of the moment.
But.
Convenience food makes you fat and lazy. It litters the planet, its garish signs painting the skyline, its packaging stuffing landfills. It is not real food. It nourishes, but only for the moment. Its very ease is addictive. Its engineered combination of fats, salts, and sweets are addictive. You think you can get away from it, can handle it healthily. You think, Ah, this time I'll drive up to the window and just order the salad. Yet, moments after the disembodied voice asks, "Can I take your order?," you find yourself juggling in your lap a double cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake. Convenience food is in the driver's seat. It lulls you into complacency; it allows you to forget your roots, your integrity.
I have been eating convenience foods lately. In man form. I have a convenience man. He is there when I need him. He makes it easy to lean. He is consistent in his offerings. He comes when I call, he leaves when I ask. And I find myself asking. A lot. I'm not even sure I like him. Sometimes I positively don't. He hangs on. He tells me he's trying to hang on. He engineers himself to hook me, to keep me coming back. He is on the corner in Denver, Colorado, and in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, texting the things a girl likes to hear. He feeds me, comforts me, warms my side of the bed before I get in. Yet he is not the one. He doesn't fit. He litters my mind with ideas that aren't me, lives in a way I don't admire. He is fast food, not my soul's mate. I know this and have known it for an embarrassingly-long time. I always think I can handle him, this relationship. I think I can order just the salad but find myself overeating, over-relying, letting him in when what I really need is to cook for myself.
How does one kick a convenience food habit? How does one overcome the withdrawal symptoms, ignore the availability and the advertising on every corner? Cold turkey? Cold bed sheets. Pfft.
But.
Convenience food makes you fat and lazy. It litters the planet, its garish signs painting the skyline, its packaging stuffing landfills. It is not real food. It nourishes, but only for the moment. Its very ease is addictive. Its engineered combination of fats, salts, and sweets are addictive. You think you can get away from it, can handle it healthily. You think, Ah, this time I'll drive up to the window and just order the salad. Yet, moments after the disembodied voice asks, "Can I take your order?," you find yourself juggling in your lap a double cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake. Convenience food is in the driver's seat. It lulls you into complacency; it allows you to forget your roots, your integrity.
I have been eating convenience foods lately. In man form. I have a convenience man. He is there when I need him. He makes it easy to lean. He is consistent in his offerings. He comes when I call, he leaves when I ask. And I find myself asking. A lot. I'm not even sure I like him. Sometimes I positively don't. He hangs on. He tells me he's trying to hang on. He engineers himself to hook me, to keep me coming back. He is on the corner in Denver, Colorado, and in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, texting the things a girl likes to hear. He feeds me, comforts me, warms my side of the bed before I get in. Yet he is not the one. He doesn't fit. He litters my mind with ideas that aren't me, lives in a way I don't admire. He is fast food, not my soul's mate. I know this and have known it for an embarrassingly-long time. I always think I can handle him, this relationship. I think I can order just the salad but find myself overeating, over-relying, letting him in when what I really need is to cook for myself.
How does one kick a convenience food habit? How does one overcome the withdrawal symptoms, ignore the availability and the advertising on every corner? Cold turkey? Cold bed sheets. Pfft.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Clear Creek Thaw
It is also unnatural to haul your cookies up 85 feet of vertical rock, clipping into bolts that are spaced 10 feet apart with only a rope threaded through and a belayer at the bottom to (hopefully, most times) catch you before you hit the ground or a ledge or other nasty obstruction to wholeness of life and limb. Yet I did it today.
And loved it.
My lead head is coming back to me. Today was all about being humbled, reassessing, and then pushing through to the shiny light at the end of the tunnel - the anchors at the top of the climb. Last night I bought the Clear Creek Canyon guidebook, pored and drooled over the thing, thinking "we can do this one, and that one, and, and, and..." I had myself pegged as the climbing star of the cliff, shooting up these climbs as comfortably as I've been leading in the gym.
Not so fast there, Texas.
I got on an 8 first and nearly wet myself trying the tricky bouldering move to get to the FIRST CLIP. As in lots and lots of grounding potential. And not only grounding potential, but guaranteed scrapes against jaggedy schist and gneiss. Not nice. I walked myself out onto a ledge - way far from the first clip and shook there for a few minutes. Meanwhile my climbing partner tried to talk me out of my tree -- or off my cliff, as it were. I bailed. I downclimbed and let her have a go at it. She got the first clip, but then was too scared to go to the second. I got on again and finished that route for us.
Which made me really glad that it was a weekday on a 50 degree, somewhat cloudy day.
Most climbers do not take three attacks to get up a route. Especially an 8! So I was humblized. I topped that one again just to dial into the rock and then went on to lead another 8, a 10a, a three-star 9, rounding out the day with a 7 on a new crag. By the end of the day, I was feeling strong and wrapped around the rock and the movement, NOT my fear and risk analysis. I trust my shoes, I trust my serpentine movement, clinging to the rock, moving upward along it, feeling for the crimp, planting a toe, edging on a ledge.
At one point I needed to switch hands in a hueco. I slowly snaked the left out of the hold, arcing it over to my left while walking the fingers of my right hand from the middle of the hueco to the outside left edge of it thereby enabling me to reach a better hold with my left hand. Tiny, controlled, mindful-breathing movements allow you to translate yourself along the wall.
All this was trust was relearned with Clear Creek gurgling in the background, its cold water flowing over rock and ice. Chilly beauty, thawing, like me, for the summer climbs to come.
Route record:
Pony Up 5.8
Poker Face 5.8 or 5.9
Ace in the Hole 5.10a
5th of July 5.9+
Halloween 5.7
And loved it.
My lead head is coming back to me. Today was all about being humbled, reassessing, and then pushing through to the shiny light at the end of the tunnel - the anchors at the top of the climb. Last night I bought the Clear Creek Canyon guidebook, pored and drooled over the thing, thinking "we can do this one, and that one, and, and, and..." I had myself pegged as the climbing star of the cliff, shooting up these climbs as comfortably as I've been leading in the gym.
Not so fast there, Texas.
I got on an 8 first and nearly wet myself trying the tricky bouldering move to get to the FIRST CLIP. As in lots and lots of grounding potential. And not only grounding potential, but guaranteed scrapes against jaggedy schist and gneiss. Not nice. I walked myself out onto a ledge - way far from the first clip and shook there for a few minutes. Meanwhile my climbing partner tried to talk me out of my tree -- or off my cliff, as it were. I bailed. I downclimbed and let her have a go at it. She got the first clip, but then was too scared to go to the second. I got on again and finished that route for us.
Which made me really glad that it was a weekday on a 50 degree, somewhat cloudy day.
Most climbers do not take three attacks to get up a route. Especially an 8! So I was humblized. I topped that one again just to dial into the rock and then went on to lead another 8, a 10a, a three-star 9, rounding out the day with a 7 on a new crag. By the end of the day, I was feeling strong and wrapped around the rock and the movement, NOT my fear and risk analysis. I trust my shoes, I trust my serpentine movement, clinging to the rock, moving upward along it, feeling for the crimp, planting a toe, edging on a ledge.
At one point I needed to switch hands in a hueco. I slowly snaked the left out of the hold, arcing it over to my left while walking the fingers of my right hand from the middle of the hueco to the outside left edge of it thereby enabling me to reach a better hold with my left hand. Tiny, controlled, mindful-breathing movements allow you to translate yourself along the wall.
All this was trust was relearned with Clear Creek gurgling in the background, its cold water flowing over rock and ice. Chilly beauty, thawing, like me, for the summer climbs to come.
Route record:
Pony Up 5.8
Poker Face 5.8 or 5.9
Ace in the Hole 5.10a
5th of July 5.9+
Halloween 5.7
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
The Body Comes Home
It is unnatural to race into the day. To embrace hecticity with a cup of coffee in hand. To clutch and pinch and brace for the big brainwork and the cheering coaxing that is teaching. It is unnatural. Yet it's what I do most mornings.
Over this spring break, I feel the natural. I indulge and revel in it. Wake up, yes, with a cup of coffee in hand, but then... move from one thing to the next, knowing that no one thing is more urgent than the other. I have T-I-M-E. The children are not going to press, colleagues are not going to need, my content is not screaming to be broken into meaningful, digestible-by-seventh-grader chunks.
It is just me. Moving from one thing to the next, feeling the muscles that last night's yoga found and, by virtue of their non-participation in this morning's squalling, the ones that were slinking on the sidelines.
This is my new balance, this partnership of yoga and climbing. If I weren't in this quiet, bodhisattva, body-satisfied place, I'd be screeching "Eureka!" from the Front Range peaks. Instead I'll whisper on my blog, Climbing + Yoga = contentment, balance, healing, strength.
My body is coming home.
Over this spring break, I feel the natural. I indulge and revel in it. Wake up, yes, with a cup of coffee in hand, but then... move from one thing to the next, knowing that no one thing is more urgent than the other. I have T-I-M-E. The children are not going to press, colleagues are not going to need, my content is not screaming to be broken into meaningful, digestible-by-seventh-grader chunks.
It is just me. Moving from one thing to the next, feeling the muscles that last night's yoga found and, by virtue of their non-participation in this morning's squalling, the ones that were slinking on the sidelines.
This is my new balance, this partnership of yoga and climbing. If I weren't in this quiet, bodhisattva, body-satisfied place, I'd be screeching "Eureka!" from the Front Range peaks. Instead I'll whisper on my blog, Climbing + Yoga = contentment, balance, healing, strength.
My body is coming home.
Monday, December 24, 2012
Bolted Places
I like seeing far...
Longs Peak, Solstice 2012
Friday, December 21, 2012
Tinsel
The old dragging desolation
the surety that nothing is right
Thought I'd licked it
Left it at 14000 feet
Fifty-eight times over
I try
Believe me I try
I build mansions
of red tinsel
stuffed gift bags
alcohol and cherries
Pfft
They are houses of cards
so much morning trash
Breaking up is hard to do
the surety that nothing is right
Thought I'd licked it
Left it at 14000 feet
Fifty-eight times over
I try
Believe me I try
I build mansions
of red tinsel
stuffed gift bags
alcohol and cherries
Pfft
They are houses of cards
so much morning trash
Breaking up is hard to do
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Who do you wanna be?
I want to be a good teacher, a really good teacher. I want the kids to like me and learn like crazy. I want their scores to reflect their growth. I want them to be far-seeing yet near-sighted too, when it comes to others' feelings.
I want to be good at conflict resolution. Or when that ain't gonna happen, I want to be quick to put it in its proper place. I don't want to take it with me to climbing dinners or on hikes -- or at least not that it sticks with me for the duration. I want my mind to be pure and clear as mountain air. Inevitably, there will be difficulties in life. I don't want them to run my psyche.
I want to be married. And I mean married hard. I want a soulmate. Someone who, when I listen to him talk, is saying words I wish I woulda said. I want him to hike, bike, read, and beat me at cribbage.
I want to be five pounds lighter. I want it for vain reasons. I want to look better and I want to climb better.
I want to capitalize on my knowledge of how I tick. I want to quickly center myself when the spinning starts. Hikes and walks do that. Nights out with my girls do that.
And when I get there? I promise to be more grateful than today even. And I promise to make a new list.
I want to be good at conflict resolution. Or when that ain't gonna happen, I want to be quick to put it in its proper place. I don't want to take it with me to climbing dinners or on hikes -- or at least not that it sticks with me for the duration. I want my mind to be pure and clear as mountain air. Inevitably, there will be difficulties in life. I don't want them to run my psyche.I want to be married. And I mean married hard. I want a soulmate. Someone who, when I listen to him talk, is saying words I wish I woulda said. I want him to hike, bike, read, and beat me at cribbage.
I want to be five pounds lighter. I want it for vain reasons. I want to look better and I want to climb better.
I want to capitalize on my knowledge of how I tick. I want to quickly center myself when the spinning starts. Hikes and walks do that. Nights out with my girls do that.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
The Ma'am Years
I am past my "miss" years and into my ma'ams. Ahh... this golden age preceding my golden years. I have received the news in a series of little things that one wouldn't necessarily notice, like being addressed as ma'am instead of miss. I have noticed other signs.
Most 20ish year olds make me crazy. Was I that smugly self-assured? And as annoying-ignorant of the aura? I repent! On the other hand, if I ever need advice on how to better pack my pack, how to treat altitude sickness, or how to land a high-paying sales job (ma'am!), I know three 20 year-olds I can ask.
My parents are letting my boyfriend and I sleep together when we go back to visit them. An unmarried couple in the same bedroom?!? This has never happened under their roof. Have they surmised I'm not a virgin? Am I old enough that they have given up? Am I so old that they think we can't get it up?
There are perks to the ma'am years. To paraphrase the old country song, older women do make beautiful lovers. Or at least brassier ones. I can walk through the door after a long hike and hand boyfriend the massage oil, and dare him to find a spot on my body that doesn't hurt. After an hour, all my nerve endings are tending in quite a different direction.
My friendships are deep and true, hilarious and validating. We are all off-route together -- in climbing and in our unconventionality. We intuit when to spew beta and when it's best just to shut up and let the other flail.
Finally, I have a visceral response when I see a good bottle of wine, just sitting there, improving with age.
Most 20ish year olds make me crazy. Was I that smugly self-assured? And as annoying-ignorant of the aura? I repent! On the other hand, if I ever need advice on how to better pack my pack, how to treat altitude sickness, or how to land a high-paying sales job (ma'am!), I know three 20 year-olds I can ask.
My parents are letting my boyfriend and I sleep together when we go back to visit them. An unmarried couple in the same bedroom?!? This has never happened under their roof. Have they surmised I'm not a virgin? Am I old enough that they have given up? Am I so old that they think we can't get it up?
There are perks to the ma'am years. To paraphrase the old country song, older women do make beautiful lovers. Or at least brassier ones. I can walk through the door after a long hike and hand boyfriend the massage oil, and dare him to find a spot on my body that doesn't hurt. After an hour, all my nerve endings are tending in quite a different direction.
My friendships are deep and true, hilarious and validating. We are all off-route together -- in climbing and in our unconventionality. We intuit when to spew beta and when it's best just to shut up and let the other flail.
Finally, I have a visceral response when I see a good bottle of wine, just sitting there, improving with age.
Monsters
The ones under your bed
rapping at your window
beating down your door
big teeth dripping green slime
ready to bite your neck
suck your blood
The ones in your fears
of love lost
romance fading
loved ones dying
Big teeth dripping green slime
Ready to [clamp] down on your heart
Drain your life blood
and replace it with salty tears.
Written June 2, 2007
rapping at your window
beating down your door
big teeth dripping green slime
ready to bite your neck
suck your blood
The ones in your fears
of love lost
romance fading
loved ones dying
Big teeth dripping green slime
Ready to [clamp] down on your heart
Drain your life blood
and replace it with salty tears.
Written June 2, 2007
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