If I ever learn to play the guitar it will be so I can play this song with my own hands.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Snow!
There is something magical about blizzards. There is this sense that the world is holding it's breath. The silence overtakes everything, even if you stay in the house. Maybe it's the thought of impending powder on the hills and knowing that I will be shooshing through it soon. Maybe it's the comfort of seeing all that deadly cold coming down while I am tucked cozily away at home with two of the cutest boys to ever exist. But blizzards make me want to curl up with a book, video game controller or a laptop to record my musings and snuggle with a strong cup of steaming coffee.
But motherhood is calling and my boys don't snuggle well. They are more the run wild through the house shooting each other and me while climbing the walls and ripping things apart. So instead I think we will make vegan sugar cookies in the shape of turkeys and pilgrim hats and decorate them with powdered sugar icing. But coffee is on and She & Him are playing in the background though so at least some of the blizzard peace is still in tact.
But motherhood is calling and my boys don't snuggle well. They are more the run wild through the house shooting each other and me while climbing the walls and ripping things apart. So instead I think we will make vegan sugar cookies in the shape of turkeys and pilgrim hats and decorate them with powdered sugar icing. But coffee is on and She & Him are playing in the background though so at least some of the blizzard peace is still in tact.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Secret by The Pierces
I am absolutely abuzz with my new-found love for The Pierces! What an amazingly creepycool sound they have.
This song isn't necessarily indicative of their overall musical stylings but how freaking cool is it?! It has this odd sexy/stalker feel to it that I find strangely captivating.
Just search Youtube for The Pierces if you are even half as twitterpated as I am right now.
This song isn't necessarily indicative of their overall musical stylings but how freaking cool is it?! It has this odd sexy/stalker feel to it that I find strangely captivating.
Just search Youtube for The Pierces if you are even half as twitterpated as I am right now.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Go, Mom!
Another gorgeous fall day. Twice this week I have spent my evening at the local roadside climb. It is already November and the leaves have only just started to turn and drop. Days that should be considered blustery have instead been filled with sunshine, open doors and warm rocks. All the locals were at the crag tonight, we don't waste these evenings if it can be helped.
As the golden sun was not yet set behind the Bannock Range I started up a climb that would have once been within my skill set. I knew a clean ascent would elude me tonight. Flushed basalt rubbed my raw fingers as I started up. I looked down at my little sister and double checked her stance. “I won't get this, Lyndsey,” I hollered. She rolled her eyes and yelled something back in typical teenage fashion. Just keep climbing, I thought to myself. A ledge that couldn't easily hold a nickel was my only hand hold, but I've seen worse. At least this ran the width of the route. Small foot holds were tolerably stable but an inexperienced belayer kept me from putting too much faith into any hold. I floundered a bit, testing holds and not moving much. My already tender hands were taking the brunt of my insecurities and the warm sun was threatening to disappear quickly and leave a chill to remind us that this reprieve was a temporary gift.
Rick was belaying near me and he kindly called out some beta. Rick may have been climbing these rocks before there was a city nearby. Or dirt. If grizzly old Rick tells you where to put your hands, listen. So listen I did. Moving left along the nickel-sized shelf I eventually found some small crimpers to grab. Breathing hard and trying not to groan with effort I reached for a far right hold using nothing but friction to lean into the rock and keep my body steady. All sounds faded as my world became focused into the ancient stone in front of me. A loud sigh escaped from me as I reached, clinging to what I could, climbing higher by inches. This is what I love. That silence, the way it all stops as my mind and body have condensed into a single moment, a single move, a single rock. And breaking through all that came one of the most beautiful sounds I have been blessed enough to hear. “Go, Mom!” shouts my 3 year old. I laughed and turned around to see a beaming boy scrambling up some low lying rocks several yards away. Pride written across his face he turns to the son of a friend of mine and says, “My mom can climb SO high.” As my precious silence was shattered by the ensuing battle of whose mom was cooler (I didn't bother to inform my smitten son that Felix's mom, was in fact a much better climber than I) I simply reveled in the cacophony of it all, my sought after silence replaced by the joyous sounds of motherhood.
As the golden sun was not yet set behind the Bannock Range I started up a climb that would have once been within my skill set. I knew a clean ascent would elude me tonight. Flushed basalt rubbed my raw fingers as I started up. I looked down at my little sister and double checked her stance. “I won't get this, Lyndsey,” I hollered. She rolled her eyes and yelled something back in typical teenage fashion. Just keep climbing, I thought to myself. A ledge that couldn't easily hold a nickel was my only hand hold, but I've seen worse. At least this ran the width of the route. Small foot holds were tolerably stable but an inexperienced belayer kept me from putting too much faith into any hold. I floundered a bit, testing holds and not moving much. My already tender hands were taking the brunt of my insecurities and the warm sun was threatening to disappear quickly and leave a chill to remind us that this reprieve was a temporary gift.
Rick was belaying near me and he kindly called out some beta. Rick may have been climbing these rocks before there was a city nearby. Or dirt. If grizzly old Rick tells you where to put your hands, listen. So listen I did. Moving left along the nickel-sized shelf I eventually found some small crimpers to grab. Breathing hard and trying not to groan with effort I reached for a far right hold using nothing but friction to lean into the rock and keep my body steady. All sounds faded as my world became focused into the ancient stone in front of me. A loud sigh escaped from me as I reached, clinging to what I could, climbing higher by inches. This is what I love. That silence, the way it all stops as my mind and body have condensed into a single moment, a single move, a single rock. And breaking through all that came one of the most beautiful sounds I have been blessed enough to hear. “Go, Mom!” shouts my 3 year old. I laughed and turned around to see a beaming boy scrambling up some low lying rocks several yards away. Pride written across his face he turns to the son of a friend of mine and says, “My mom can climb SO high.” As my precious silence was shattered by the ensuing battle of whose mom was cooler (I didn't bother to inform my smitten son that Felix's mom, was in fact a much better climber than I) I simply reveled in the cacophony of it all, my sought after silence replaced by the joyous sounds of motherhood.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
social networking
I have, on different occasions and for assorted reasons, shut down or privatized my assorted internet profiles. I have deleted my writings in fits of anger, eradicated a MySpace profile that was several years old, removed contacts from Gtalk, blocked people on Facebook because I didn't think they deserved to read my supremely lame status updates and even set this blog to be unreadable to everyone. I Tweeted once upon a time, for about 2 days, but I found it completely unsatisfying. And I have even boycotted certain email-friends due to their lack of adequate responses. I have been mulling this personality trait lately and I think I figured out why I am so quick to react to a lack of response.
Friendships don't have some intrinsic value simply for their own sake. Call me selfish, you'd hardly be the first, but if I put some thought and effort into communicating I want it to be returned. I believe this is why Twitter held no appeal for me. You just put your thoughts out in the ether and then what? I don't seek simple publication. No. I want communication, reciprocation, interrogations and revelations! These things cannot be had in 160 characters, or as a monologue. It may be why I occasionally private my blog and Facebook pages. It is frustrating to me that I can put thoughts down, anyone can read what I write, but there is no effort of returning the friendship on anyone else's part.
But then in my typically fickle fashion my reasons tend to lose their purpose or my frustration loses its luster. I usually vow to "never post anything of a personal nature again anyway" and I undo all privacy settings. After all, in my natural mercurial ways I forgive easily, change quickly and look back rarely.
Friendships don't have some intrinsic value simply for their own sake. Call me selfish, you'd hardly be the first, but if I put some thought and effort into communicating I want it to be returned. I believe this is why Twitter held no appeal for me. You just put your thoughts out in the ether and then what? I don't seek simple publication. No. I want communication, reciprocation, interrogations and revelations! These things cannot be had in 160 characters, or as a monologue. It may be why I occasionally private my blog and Facebook pages. It is frustrating to me that I can put thoughts down, anyone can read what I write, but there is no effort of returning the friendship on anyone else's part.
But then in my typically fickle fashion my reasons tend to lose their purpose or my frustration loses its luster. I usually vow to "never post anything of a personal nature again anyway" and I undo all privacy settings. After all, in my natural mercurial ways I forgive easily, change quickly and look back rarely.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
brandi
I have been so obsessed with Brandi Carlile lately.
I made a pretty awesome mix CD that is on constant repeat in my Jeep and when she isn't crooning her blessed voice into my brain through GM supported speakers she is singing her lullabies in my head. While trekking through The Subway of Zion (I still need to finish that trip report) Brandi heralded Late Morning Lullabies, Have You Ever and The Story. Her cherubic voice kept up a constant stream of beatific melodies to enhance the experience of what was already an amazing walk. Geologic time periods slipped by while an angel teased me with visions of Sunday mornings spent tangled in flannel sheets with a guitar played just for me in a room set away from the world.
But the last few days have been different. Gone are the carefree melodies of an ever fleeting youth and left in their wake are memories of a place from which I was forcibly removed. The other occupant a mirage of distance and circumstance.
Somehow the carols of Ms. Carlile instantly return me to a bittersweet life that never was.
I need to find a new CD on which to obsess.
I made a pretty awesome mix CD that is on constant repeat in my Jeep and when she isn't crooning her blessed voice into my brain through GM supported speakers she is singing her lullabies in my head. While trekking through The Subway of Zion (I still need to finish that trip report) Brandi heralded Late Morning Lullabies, Have You Ever and The Story. Her cherubic voice kept up a constant stream of beatific melodies to enhance the experience of what was already an amazing walk. Geologic time periods slipped by while an angel teased me with visions of Sunday mornings spent tangled in flannel sheets with a guitar played just for me in a room set away from the world.
But the last few days have been different. Gone are the carefree melodies of an ever fleeting youth and left in their wake are memories of a place from which I was forcibly removed. The other occupant a mirage of distance and circumstance.
Somehow the carols of Ms. Carlile instantly return me to a bittersweet life that never was.
I need to find a new CD on which to obsess.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
How to Cook a Squirrel - Food Media - Top Stories - CHOW
How to Cook a Squirrel - Food Media - Top Stories - CHOW: "- Sent using Google Toolbar"
I didn't click the link. If you do let me know what I'm missing. Censor the graphic bits, of course!
I didn't click the link. If you do let me know what I'm missing. Censor the graphic bits, of course!
Monday, October 11, 2010
To the Evening Star by William Blake
Thou fair hair'd angel of the evening,
Now, while the sun rests on the mountains light,
Thy bright torch of love; Thy radiant crown
Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
Smile on our loves; and when thou drawest the
Blue curtains, scatter thy silver dew
On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes
In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on
The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes
And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full, soon,
Dost thou withdraw; Then, the wolf rages wide,
And the lion glares thro' the dun forest.
The fleece of our flocks are covered with
Thy sacred dew; Protect them with thine influence.Golden Apollo, that thro' heaven wide
Scatter'st the rays of light, and truth's beams,
In lucent words my darkling verses dight,
And wash my earthy mind in thy clear streams,
That wisdom may descend in fairy dreams,
All while the jocund hours in thy train
Scatter their fancies at thy poet's feet;
And when thou yields to night thy wide domain,
Let rays of truth enlight his sleeping brain.
For brutish Pan in vain might thee assay
With tinkling sounds to dash thy nervous verse,
Sound without sense; yet in his rude affray,
(For ignorance is Folly's leasing nurse
And love of Folly needs none other's curse)
Midas the praise hath gain'd of lengthen'd ears,
For which himself might deem him ne'er the worse
To sit in council with his modern peers,
And judge of tinkling rimes and elegances terse.
And thou, Mercurius, that with wing?d brow
Dost mount aloft into the yielding sky,
And thro' Heav'n's halls thy airy flight dost throw,
Entering with holy feet to where on high
Jove weighs the counsel of futurity;
Then, laden with eternal fate, dost go
Down, like a falling star, from autumn sky,
And o'er the surface of the silent deep dost fly:
If thou arrivest at the sandy shore
Where nought but envious hissing adders dwell,
Thy golden rod, thrown on t 1000 he dusty floor,
Can charm to harmony with potent spell.
Such is sweet Eloquence, that does dispel
Envy and Hate that thirst for human gore;
And cause in sweet society to dwell
Vile savage minds that lurk in lonely cell
O Mercury, assist my lab'ring sense
That round the circle of the world would fly,
As the wing'd eagle scorns the tow'ry fence
Of Alpine hills round his high a?ry,
And searches thro' the corners of the sky,
Sports in the clouds to hear the thunder's sound,
And see the wing?d lightnings as they fly;
Then, bosom'd in an amber cloud, around
Plumes his wide wings, and seeks Sol's palace high.
And thou, O warrior maid invincible,
Arm'd with the terrors of Almighty Jove,
Pallas, Minerva, maiden terrible,
Lov'st thou to walk the peaceful solemn grove,
In solemn gloom of branches interwove?
Or bear'st thy AEgis o'er the burning field,
Where, like the sea, the waves of battle move?
Or have thy soft piteous eyes beheld
The weary wanderer thro' the desert rove?
Or does th' afflicted man thy heav'nly bosom move?
Now, while the sun rests on the mountains light,
Thy bright torch of love; Thy radiant crown
Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
Smile on our loves; and when thou drawest the
Blue curtains, scatter thy silver dew
On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes
In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on
The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes
And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full, soon,
Dost thou withdraw; Then, the wolf rages wide,
And the lion glares thro' the dun forest.
The fleece of our flocks are covered with
Thy sacred dew; Protect them with thine influence.Golden Apollo, that thro' heaven wide
Scatter'st the rays of light, and truth's beams,
In lucent words my darkling verses dight,
And wash my earthy mind in thy clear streams,
That wisdom may descend in fairy dreams,
All while the jocund hours in thy train
Scatter their fancies at thy poet's feet;
And when thou yields to night thy wide domain,
Let rays of truth enlight his sleeping brain.
For brutish Pan in vain might thee assay
With tinkling sounds to dash thy nervous verse,
Sound without sense; yet in his rude affray,
(For ignorance is Folly's leasing nurse
And love of Folly needs none other's curse)
Midas the praise hath gain'd of lengthen'd ears,
For which himself might deem him ne'er the worse
To sit in council with his modern peers,
And judge of tinkling rimes and elegances terse.
And thou, Mercurius, that with wing?d brow
Dost mount aloft into the yielding sky,
And thro' Heav'n's halls thy airy flight dost throw,
Entering with holy feet to where on high
Jove weighs the counsel of futurity;
Then, laden with eternal fate, dost go
Down, like a falling star, from autumn sky,
And o'er the surface of the silent deep dost fly:
If thou arrivest at the sandy shore
Where nought but envious hissing adders dwell,
Thy golden rod, thrown on t 1000 he dusty floor,
Can charm to harmony with potent spell.
Such is sweet Eloquence, that does dispel
Envy and Hate that thirst for human gore;
And cause in sweet society to dwell
Vile savage minds that lurk in lonely cell
O Mercury, assist my lab'ring sense
That round the circle of the world would fly,
As the wing'd eagle scorns the tow'ry fence
Of Alpine hills round his high a?ry,
And searches thro' the corners of the sky,
Sports in the clouds to hear the thunder's sound,
And see the wing?d lightnings as they fly;
Then, bosom'd in an amber cloud, around
Plumes his wide wings, and seeks Sol's palace high.
And thou, O warrior maid invincible,
Arm'd with the terrors of Almighty Jove,
Pallas, Minerva, maiden terrible,
Lov'st thou to walk the peaceful solemn grove,
In solemn gloom of branches interwove?
Or bear'st thy AEgis o'er the burning field,
Where, like the sea, the waves of battle move?
Or have thy soft piteous eyes beheld
The weary wanderer thro' the desert rove?
Or does th' afflicted man thy heav'nly bosom move?
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Snyder v. Phelps: Inside the Supreme Court's Free Speech Showdown
Snyder v. Phelps: Inside the Supreme Court's Free Speech Showdown
These people make me sick. I want to find them and... I don't even know. I want to scream and use violence on them. Spew on them all the anger that I feel in regards to their disgusting actions. I also want to sit them down and calmly explain that they are being hateful, hurtful and unkind.
To give a bit of context here, I am not particularly fond of the war in which we're currently engaged. I hope to never have a funeral and I don't attend them willingly. I think grief should be much more private and less organized than most funerals allow. Although I do my part to support the men and women that choose to spend their lives defending our country, I do not as a whole support our military system.
But I also do not think my own beliefs should be imposed on anyone else. I make sure to send packages of goodies overseas and I do attend the funerals of my loved ones. My beliefs are private and there is a time and place to discuss such sensitive subjects. At the funeral of a man who died doing something he felt was right, just and necessary is not the time to share your controversial and detestable opinions.
Hate-mongering is not free speech. Attacking a bereaved family that has nothing to do with your rather psychotic cause is not free speech! It is harassment and it should not be protected under the first amendment, instead it should be prosecuted as harassment. These people should be forced to pay the $5 million in damages as awarded by the first court in which this suit was heard. These people should have charges brought up on them for disturbing the peace, harassment and any other charge that lawyers and police can imagine.
Or better yet, we should shoot a few of the leaders and hold up signs at their funerals congratulating ourselves and declaring their deaths to be God's will.
These people make me sick. I want to find them and... I don't even know. I want to scream and use violence on them. Spew on them all the anger that I feel in regards to their disgusting actions. I also want to sit them down and calmly explain that they are being hateful, hurtful and unkind.
To give a bit of context here, I am not particularly fond of the war in which we're currently engaged. I hope to never have a funeral and I don't attend them willingly. I think grief should be much more private and less organized than most funerals allow. Although I do my part to support the men and women that choose to spend their lives defending our country, I do not as a whole support our military system.
But I also do not think my own beliefs should be imposed on anyone else. I make sure to send packages of goodies overseas and I do attend the funerals of my loved ones. My beliefs are private and there is a time and place to discuss such sensitive subjects. At the funeral of a man who died doing something he felt was right, just and necessary is not the time to share your controversial and detestable opinions.
Hate-mongering is not free speech. Attacking a bereaved family that has nothing to do with your rather psychotic cause is not free speech! It is harassment and it should not be protected under the first amendment, instead it should be prosecuted as harassment. These people should be forced to pay the $5 million in damages as awarded by the first court in which this suit was heard. These people should have charges brought up on them for disturbing the peace, harassment and any other charge that lawyers and police can imagine.
Or better yet, we should shoot a few of the leaders and hold up signs at their funerals congratulating ourselves and declaring their deaths to be God's will.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
wanderlust
I want to go everywhere. I want to do everything.
I want to climb more, hike through sands and up mountains. I follow this blog and live vicariously through Aimee. A fellow Abbey subscriber and Southern Utah lover, her writing speaks to me. Calls me into the wild. She is living a life less ordinary in a most extraordinary way. Sometimes, today, reading of her adventures, seeing the photos of all these places I may never know, makes me melancholy.
Some days I miss the life I didn't choose.
I want to climb more, hike through sands and up mountains. I follow this blog and live vicariously through Aimee. A fellow Abbey subscriber and Southern Utah lover, her writing speaks to me. Calls me into the wild. She is living a life less ordinary in a most extraordinary way. Sometimes, today, reading of her adventures, seeing the photos of all these places I may never know, makes me melancholy.
Some days I miss the life I didn't choose.
Friday, October 1, 2010
YouTube - We No Speak Americano ft. Cleary & Harding
YouTube - We No Speak Americano ft. Cleary & Harding: "- Sent using Google Toolbar"
One day I will be as cool as Nikki and figure out how to embed videos directly into my blog. But until then, turn up the volume, click the link, kick your chair out of the way and DANCE! Oh, then come back and watch this totally rad video. That's right, I said totally rad.
One day I will be as cool as Nikki and figure out how to embed videos directly into my blog. But until then, turn up the volume, click the link, kick your chair out of the way and DANCE! Oh, then come back and watch this totally rad video. That's right, I said totally rad.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Music
I don't really know why I keep a blog. As previously mentioned I am not actually comfortable with knowing that people read it. I was asked to blog professionally for the newspaper and found that I just couldn't do it. Too much pressure, too much exposure. But I write a lot and it needs to go somewhere. I have what I could term a diary, or a journal of sorts, but it isn't in a form that I can easily read back through it. And it's all full of secrets and truths and things I wouldn't share. This is public enough to keep me from wandering too deep but private enough that I am pretty much within my comfort zone of sharing. Anyone who knows me well knows I don't often get into girly feelers and whatnot. But when I do delve into that realm of myself it can get pretty messy. This is a nice balance for me.
I'm not sure what all that has to do with what I came here to post. An amazing song. Delta Spirit, Salt in the Wound
When I heard this it was as background music under a monologue and I briefly wondered if it was my man, Willy. A throaty voice with just enough twang to make me giddy over an hypnotically pleasing repetition of guitar strings being plucked with love and skill. Alas it is not The Legend of the South but instead a band I'd never even heard of before. Enjoy, Anonymous Readers and Jenni.
I'm not sure what all that has to do with what I came here to post. An amazing song. Delta Spirit, Salt in the Wound
When I heard this it was as background music under a monologue and I briefly wondered if it was my man, Willy. A throaty voice with just enough twang to make me giddy over an hypnotically pleasing repetition of guitar strings being plucked with love and skill. Alas it is not The Legend of the South but instead a band I'd never even heard of before. Enjoy, Anonymous Readers and Jenni.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Therapy and Privacy and fear of the unknown
I don't think anyone really noticed but I set my blog to "private" a few months ago. The visitor log was driving me a wee bit bonkers. Visits would be logged from all over the world, or even worse, from my own area, but I never knew who it was. I, being the over-thinking natural control-freak that I am, would wonder who was visiting, reading my errant and mundane thoughts. What did they read? How did they find me? And on it went. Until one particular visitor drove me over the edge of reason and I basically shut down my page.
Well, visitor log you are no more! I deleted the infernal thing and am now free to write whatever I want in blissful ignorance of all visitors! As far as I care to know, no one is reading my ramblings and I think I may like it that way. My words have always flowed more freely if I imagine an audience (anyone know the definition of a narcissist?) *but* as a confirmed sufferer of severe and sometimes debilitating stage fright I can't actually know that anyone is reading. Ah, what a conundrum. If I think only myself will read my writings I tend lose focus and not finish. But if I actually know someone will read my work then I can't manage to string together coherent thoughts.
So I am trying something in between. We'll see, or, um, at least I will, how it goes from here.
Well, visitor log you are no more! I deleted the infernal thing and am now free to write whatever I want in blissful ignorance of all visitors! As far as I care to know, no one is reading my ramblings and I think I may like it that way. My words have always flowed more freely if I imagine an audience (anyone know the definition of a narcissist?) *but* as a confirmed sufferer of severe and sometimes debilitating stage fright I can't actually know that anyone is reading. Ah, what a conundrum. If I think only myself will read my writings I tend lose focus and not finish. But if I actually know someone will read my work then I can't manage to string together coherent thoughts.
So I am trying something in between. We'll see, or, um, at least I will, how it goes from here.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Desert Rat
For many years I have had an abiding love for the desert. The smoothly stark landscape superimposed with jagged life and alien species can always make me pause for a moment of peace. There is something ancient, something primal in the desert. Instead of the cacophony of life one can touch in the mountains there is a delicate roaring of solitude. Every plant seems individual, special for its very existence and the lack of brotherhood in which it manages to thrive. And with this comes a sense of the extraordinary in every rock, tree, bush and animal. Colors never seem more vivid than when there are only 3 or so from which to choose and varying degrees of those.
Moab, Arches, Zion, Goblin, Bryce, these are places that visit me in my dreams but often seem unreachable through the fog of reality. Children are born, careers thrive and trips are delayed. I want my children to experience the magic of desert, the beauty of a sunrise flanked by hoodoos, to learn to follow cairns and stand behind a waterfall.
But until they are a little older, until I can show them some of the splendor of their world, I will try to experience it without them and write it down for them to read one day, if they wish.
Friday, July 16, 2010
RUN!
"I didn't know rattlesnakes were so green." That was the main thought in my head after my encounter with an angry rattler. I was hiking up a creek with Kolter on my back. My husband had Killian on his back and we were trekking through icy water, up and over boulders, on trail, off trail drawing ever closer to a waterfall, or so the trail information stated.
After what seemed like hours of wet and rugged walking I finally decided to head higher, out of the water, and seek a drier trail. With my head down, watching a game trail grow a little fainter with each step, I heard a distinctive clackclackclack that I don't think I have ever heard before, and hope to never hear again. I looked up, already in a panic although still unsure why, and saw a large green triangular head perched atop a thick, coiled body just peaking out from underneath a rock. Sirens went off in my head and my only thought was, "RUN!"
I whirled around and then realized I had just exposed Kolter to the evil serpent. Of course rationally I knew he was too high off the ground for the snake to pose a threat to his body, but the screaming in my head just needed to get him out of there! I nearly threw myself at my husband and started pushing him down the incline we'd just climbed up. "Snake! Snake! Run!!!" I screamed and pushed and nearly shoved him down. He teetered off balance a bit, seemed unsure of what was happening but willing to run lest his panicked wife toss him and the three year old on his back into the creek. I didn't stop until we reached the creek, about 30 feet away. In my mind I rationalized that the snake wouldn't come near the creek and it's frigid waters. Although looking back I doubt he had followed us anyway, but at the time I was convinced he was in hot pursuit of my flip flop shod feet and nothing short of water would dissuade him from the death of me or my progeny.
Now I carry a snake bite kit.
After what seemed like hours of wet and rugged walking I finally decided to head higher, out of the water, and seek a drier trail. With my head down, watching a game trail grow a little fainter with each step, I heard a distinctive clackclackclack that I don't think I have ever heard before, and hope to never hear again. I looked up, already in a panic although still unsure why, and saw a large green triangular head perched atop a thick, coiled body just peaking out from underneath a rock. Sirens went off in my head and my only thought was, "RUN!"
I whirled around and then realized I had just exposed Kolter to the evil serpent. Of course rationally I knew he was too high off the ground for the snake to pose a threat to his body, but the screaming in my head just needed to get him out of there! I nearly threw myself at my husband and started pushing him down the incline we'd just climbed up. "Snake! Snake! Run!!!" I screamed and pushed and nearly shoved him down. He teetered off balance a bit, seemed unsure of what was happening but willing to run lest his panicked wife toss him and the three year old on his back into the creek. I didn't stop until we reached the creek, about 30 feet away. In my mind I rationalized that the snake wouldn't come near the creek and it's frigid waters. Although looking back I doubt he had followed us anyway, but at the time I was convinced he was in hot pursuit of my flip flop shod feet and nothing short of water would dissuade him from the death of me or my progeny.
Now I carry a snake bite kit.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Abbey
Or so it seems at the moment, as my fire dies to a twist of smoke and a heap of rubies, and for a moment I think I've almost caught a falling star: there is no mystery; there is only paradox, the incontrovertible union of contradictory truths. A falling star which melts into vapor as I grasp it, which flows through my fingers like water, like smoke.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Abbey Thoughts
“Strolling on, it seems to me that the strangeness and wonder of existence are emphasized here, in the desert, by the comparative sparsity of the flora and fauna: life not crowded upon life as in other places but scattered abroad in spareness and simplicity, with a generous gift of space for each herb and bush and tree, each stem of grass, so that the living organism stands out bold and brave and vivid against the lifeless sand and barren rock. The extreme clarity of the desert light is equaled by the extreme individuation of desert life-forms. Love flowers best in openness and freedom.”
Cruel Shoes
Long and rambling details are my specialty!
It was impressive. Many years ago, when I was newly pregnant with my Meanie, I decided I would trek out to The City for one last multi-pitch hoorah before impending parenthood could engulf my every waking moment. After hours of hiking and trying unsuccessfully to match a rock in the vicinity with the picture in the guidebook, it started to snow and the trip was forsaken, to much sobbing on my part. That was nearly four years ago.
I committed to go back to do that climb on Friday. BUT, I was sabotaged! Instead I went to the bar Thursday night for some much-needed girl time and cried again. The climb is called Cruel Shoes but I think Cruel Intentions would be more apt. Every time I intend to do it I get cruelly thwarted.
My mom was in town for the week of the wee one's birthday and I took full advantage of a free full-time nanny. I finally left Saturday night and camped under a spectacularly full moon. The orb shone down on a small crackling campfire, a bottle of Scottish blended whiskey and myself. With no offspring to tend to I relaxed and let the melodies coming from my headphones and a few sips of whiskey lull me into a state of near hypnosis. I slept well in a warm tent and woke to hot coffee and a brisk morning. The sun rose quickly and bathed the nearby mountains in fulvous hues; tawny, orange, golden laid over blue and green hills in the distance. I started packing immediately and did not enjoy the beauty of the sunrise. There was climbing to be done!
A bit of driving over rough roads and previously unseen (by me) signs welcomed me to my happy place. City of Rocks National Reserve. We have missed one another. Two years is a very long time.
With the sun still rising, a future love of mine called Steinfell's Dome was a magnificent orange while his little brother, my favorite rock of all time, hid in his shadow. But I had plans. I could not be swayed by the lullaby of my favorite climb, the comfortable and beautiful Thumb. Oh, at nearly 600 feet from trail head to rappel anchors my greatest granite love is an imposing monolith of exposure, sand paper and sore calves disguised as a slabby lover. Beckoning with promises of illusory futures and epiphanies worth seeking this rock is a sweet partner with an embrace as cool and inviting as a bottomless swimming hole on an August Day. But no. I was here for torture, Cruel Shoes and I would meet today. A gorgeous white dome nestled in an outcropping of fellow crags, circumscribed by pinyons, junipers, a flowing creek and of course, a small trail right to the base.
Armed with correct trail information, plenty of quick draws and all necessary safety gear I started out. A crisp and wet morning left me to navigate a sometimes muddy, though quite unremarkable walk through a few cattle gates, cacti and sand.
With the sun now fully baking the white and grey granite and the watch not yet reading 8am I breached the protective layers of creek and trees. Stripe Rock and the planned route were in reach! Some discussion and a bit of referencing to the guidebook proved that the cairn was in the wrong place. I made a new one at the base of what I assume is Cruel Shoes.
A popular route, I expected some company but none showed. Near solitude. Perfect. I payed out the rope, weighed my harness down with as many draws as I own, checked webbing, ATCs and biners. All was in order! After nearly four years of this being on my tick list I took my first step up Stripe Rock.
Oh, the granite of The City is sublime. Nearly featureless in places, full jugs in others. All manners of rock invite you to place hands and feet on every inch. Kindly stone will hold you in nearly any position, hand holds and stepping places aren't necessary if there is the slightest bit of inward angle. Quite the dome, Stripe Rock isn't much of a slab, just enough to make the nearly blank wall accessible through the stickiness of that magical stone.
A bit run out at the bottom, unusual for a Kevin Pogue route, I was more than 20 feet above my belayer before the first bolt was clipped. Good start. I kept up, clipping, clipped, reach, smear, step, smear, clipping, clipped. The climbing was effortless. No puzzles to sort, few hand holds to grasp. Smearing. Tough on the rubber, taxing on the hands and murder on squished, unaccustomed toes. Cruel Shoes, indeed. Blissful mindlessness and one can wander inward as one climbs upward. My silent soundtrack set Jeff Buckley's plaintive "Hallelujah" to the melody of my twinkling draws. Appropriate for a Sunday morning excursion.
The largest and most inquisitive butterfly ever known sought me out. I throttled my scream of terror, held fast to nothing and managed to not fling myself from the wall in horror from the innocuous insect while she flitted ever closer, daring herself to land on the intruder. She eventually took pity on me and my irrational fear and flew away, in that odd, lopsided pattern they have. She really was spectacular. As big as my palm with saffron wings, dotted black. No camera but that mental picture will last a lifetime. I thank the universe she wasn't brave enough to touch me or I may have never recovered emotionally.
I continued up dragging rope and leaving draws. A nearly blank canvas, Stripe Rock gives no comfort at the belay stations. Clipped into a single anchor and resting in my harness was near murder. Cruel Shoes provides enough angle to slide your heels back into your shoes and make them chafe sensitive achilles tendons, few enough toe holds to bend those poor piggies back while smearing them against granite and just enough pitch forward to bend the ankles awkwardly. I had always wondered at the name.
Three pitches make up this route. At the top there is a single anchor but the guidebook says there are open shunts from which to rappel. Well what else is there to do but unclip from the belay station and continue up the 8 feet or so to the very top? I see no other choice. Ignoring strongly worded admonitions I unclipped my 'biner and went exploring, sans rope. Just a few more feet and I reached the pinnacle of Stripe Rock (see enclosed photo). A refreshing current of air caressed my warm skin as I soaked in the quiet. Not quiet, but the accord of nature as observed from 300 feet above rock base. Breezy precipice, call of peregrine falcons, occasional jingle of some gear and your own breath. I could stay there for hours. Peace.
But I am the only one of my climbing duo that enjoys the top. So down we decided to go. Ready for the rappel?
Oh yeah, you need two ropes for the rap. But I had no desire to carry an extra rope with me solely for the rappel so I had failed to mention this insignificant detail. I figured a belay down to the second pitch would suffice, as the way down is the same as the way up for this route. My plan was nixed and instead it was decided to rappel the rope length, hang a 'biner on a bolt, rappel from that, ditch the carabiner and search the next belay station and rappel from there. Seems overly complicated to me but who am I to argue when panic is so near at hand? We managed to do it in 2 pitches with a rather sketchy down climb of about 20 feet at the bottom.
Oddly enough I had a moment of frozen fear while waiting patiently for the rope. I clipped into a bolt near the anchor for pitch 2 and waited for the rappel to be reset closer to me. My unexpected anxiety came while I was clipped into a single bolt and rested into my harness which was tethered to the carabiner by a single bit of webbing. I replayed the conversation that I'd had on top of the rock regarding fear, safety, gear failure and was marveling at how none of that ever enters my head before, during or after a climb. Very bad idea. I suddenly looked down at this tiny piece of metal that someone, 20 years ago, had anchored into the rock. Rock that sometimes crumbles in my hand, rock that left pebbles digging into my soles when I took off my excruciatingly uncomfortable shoes. And clipped into that bit of ancient tin was a carabiner. Had it been dropped down a slick of basalt before? There were significant color changes apparent just from rubbing that particular bolt. I was putting a lot of weight into that thin piece of unknown metal. But worse than that was my webbing. No thicker than a typical piece of cardboard, only as wide as my index finger and it was stitched! By a machine worked by whom? And what kind of thread? Hadn't I once heard a story about a man's webbing that was slowly being severed by a jagged edge while he dangled on it? Another millimeter through and he would have dropped. I inspected my webbing. It seemed OK. But what about my harness?! I have had one fail before and was part of a recall.
On and on this went while I searched for foot holds, hand holds, anything to which I could cling since some major piece of gear was apt to give out at any moment and I would tumble to my death or worse. My feet were aching from the climb and the shoes to which I am no longer accustomed. But I had to keep my shoes on in order to provide a bit of purchase on the rock. My hands were rubbed nearly raw in places but I couldn't take them off the wall lest my harness suddenly disintegrated. And I kept looking down. Imagining the awful fall that would end painfully on that thin, triangular rock down there. The same rock that I would use to shimmy my way down to the ground in just a few moments. Is this what it is like for people who fear heights? This panic stricken numbness where every thought of every imaginable failure permeates your being and renders you helpless? This is awful!
But no. I am Katy. I am not scared of heights. I don't ponder the unquantifiable dangers. I just climb, jump, glide, speak, swim, dive all without thinking through most consequences. I like to do stuff just to see what happens. Irrational fear will not enter my climbing experience.
I decided to follow my mantra, what will be, will be. If some piece of gear suddenly failed and I tumbled to my death at The City then such is life. Such is death, too, I suppose. It could be no worse than dying at a nursing home at 86. And so I turned the panic off. Hysteria started expeditiously and just as swiftly it was gone. In its place a sense of the same accord that is usually reserved for the top of a hill. Where there is sometimes an unanimity with nature, in its stead there is now a fraction of understanding of life's cycle, a sense of peace with my maker and an acceptance of the unmaker that I will one day meet. I have no wish to end here, I am nowhere near done savoring the physical world for there is still much to climb, I have yet to jump or glide or swim or dive my fill. And yet somehow, knowing that I am on a journey to know this life, well then, I am further ahead than I was yesterday.
And what will be, will be.
It was impressive. Many years ago, when I was newly pregnant with my Meanie, I decided I would trek out to The City for one last multi-pitch hoorah before impending parenthood could engulf my every waking moment. After hours of hiking and trying unsuccessfully to match a rock in the vicinity with the picture in the guidebook, it started to snow and the trip was forsaken, to much sobbing on my part. That was nearly four years ago.
I committed to go back to do that climb on Friday. BUT, I was sabotaged! Instead I went to the bar Thursday night for some much-needed girl time and cried again. The climb is called Cruel Shoes but I think Cruel Intentions would be more apt. Every time I intend to do it I get cruelly thwarted.
My mom was in town for the week of the wee one's birthday and I took full advantage of a free full-time nanny. I finally left Saturday night and camped under a spectacularly full moon. The orb shone down on a small crackling campfire, a bottle of Scottish blended whiskey and myself. With no offspring to tend to I relaxed and let the melodies coming from my headphones and a few sips of whiskey lull me into a state of near hypnosis. I slept well in a warm tent and woke to hot coffee and a brisk morning. The sun rose quickly and bathed the nearby mountains in fulvous hues; tawny, orange, golden laid over blue and green hills in the distance. I started packing immediately and did not enjoy the beauty of the sunrise. There was climbing to be done!
A bit of driving over rough roads and previously unseen (by me) signs welcomed me to my happy place. City of Rocks National Reserve. We have missed one another. Two years is a very long time.
With the sun still rising, a future love of mine called Steinfell's Dome was a magnificent orange while his little brother, my favorite rock of all time, hid in his shadow. But I had plans. I could not be swayed by the lullaby of my favorite climb, the comfortable and beautiful Thumb. Oh, at nearly 600 feet from trail head to rappel anchors my greatest granite love is an imposing monolith of exposure, sand paper and sore calves disguised as a slabby lover. Beckoning with promises of illusory futures and epiphanies worth seeking this rock is a sweet partner with an embrace as cool and inviting as a bottomless swimming hole on an August Day. But no. I was here for torture, Cruel Shoes and I would meet today. A gorgeous white dome nestled in an outcropping of fellow crags, circumscribed by pinyons, junipers, a flowing creek and of course, a small trail right to the base.
Armed with correct trail information, plenty of quick draws and all necessary safety gear I started out. A crisp and wet morning left me to navigate a sometimes muddy, though quite unremarkable walk through a few cattle gates, cacti and sand.
With the sun now fully baking the white and grey granite and the watch not yet reading 8am I breached the protective layers of creek and trees. Stripe Rock and the planned route were in reach! Some discussion and a bit of referencing to the guidebook proved that the cairn was in the wrong place. I made a new one at the base of what I assume is Cruel Shoes.
A popular route, I expected some company but none showed. Near solitude. Perfect. I payed out the rope, weighed my harness down with as many draws as I own, checked webbing, ATCs and biners. All was in order! After nearly four years of this being on my tick list I took my first step up Stripe Rock.
Oh, the granite of The City is sublime. Nearly featureless in places, full jugs in others. All manners of rock invite you to place hands and feet on every inch. Kindly stone will hold you in nearly any position, hand holds and stepping places aren't necessary if there is the slightest bit of inward angle. Quite the dome, Stripe Rock isn't much of a slab, just enough to make the nearly blank wall accessible through the stickiness of that magical stone.
A bit run out at the bottom, unusual for a Kevin Pogue route, I was more than 20 feet above my belayer before the first bolt was clipped. Good start. I kept up, clipping, clipped, reach, smear, step, smear, clipping, clipped. The climbing was effortless. No puzzles to sort, few hand holds to grasp. Smearing. Tough on the rubber, taxing on the hands and murder on squished, unaccustomed toes. Cruel Shoes, indeed. Blissful mindlessness and one can wander inward as one climbs upward. My silent soundtrack set Jeff Buckley's plaintive "Hallelujah" to the melody of my twinkling draws. Appropriate for a Sunday morning excursion.
The largest and most inquisitive butterfly ever known sought me out. I throttled my scream of terror, held fast to nothing and managed to not fling myself from the wall in horror from the innocuous insect while she flitted ever closer, daring herself to land on the intruder. She eventually took pity on me and my irrational fear and flew away, in that odd, lopsided pattern they have. She really was spectacular. As big as my palm with saffron wings, dotted black. No camera but that mental picture will last a lifetime. I thank the universe she wasn't brave enough to touch me or I may have never recovered emotionally.
I continued up dragging rope and leaving draws. A nearly blank canvas, Stripe Rock gives no comfort at the belay stations. Clipped into a single anchor and resting in my harness was near murder. Cruel Shoes provides enough angle to slide your heels back into your shoes and make them chafe sensitive achilles tendons, few enough toe holds to bend those poor piggies back while smearing them against granite and just enough pitch forward to bend the ankles awkwardly. I had always wondered at the name.
Three pitches make up this route. At the top there is a single anchor but the guidebook says there are open shunts from which to rappel. Well what else is there to do but unclip from the belay station and continue up the 8 feet or so to the very top? I see no other choice. Ignoring strongly worded admonitions I unclipped my 'biner and went exploring, sans rope. Just a few more feet and I reached the pinnacle of Stripe Rock (see enclosed photo). A refreshing current of air caressed my warm skin as I soaked in the quiet. Not quiet, but the accord of nature as observed from 300 feet above rock base. Breezy precipice, call of peregrine falcons, occasional jingle of some gear and your own breath. I could stay there for hours. Peace.
But I am the only one of my climbing duo that enjoys the top. So down we decided to go. Ready for the rappel?
Oh yeah, you need two ropes for the rap. But I had no desire to carry an extra rope with me solely for the rappel so I had failed to mention this insignificant detail. I figured a belay down to the second pitch would suffice, as the way down is the same as the way up for this route. My plan was nixed and instead it was decided to rappel the rope length, hang a 'biner on a bolt, rappel from that, ditch the carabiner and search the next belay station and rappel from there. Seems overly complicated to me but who am I to argue when panic is so near at hand? We managed to do it in 2 pitches with a rather sketchy down climb of about 20 feet at the bottom.
Oddly enough I had a moment of frozen fear while waiting patiently for the rope. I clipped into a bolt near the anchor for pitch 2 and waited for the rappel to be reset closer to me. My unexpected anxiety came while I was clipped into a single bolt and rested into my harness which was tethered to the carabiner by a single bit of webbing. I replayed the conversation that I'd had on top of the rock regarding fear, safety, gear failure and was marveling at how none of that ever enters my head before, during or after a climb. Very bad idea. I suddenly looked down at this tiny piece of metal that someone, 20 years ago, had anchored into the rock. Rock that sometimes crumbles in my hand, rock that left pebbles digging into my soles when I took off my excruciatingly uncomfortable shoes. And clipped into that bit of ancient tin was a carabiner. Had it been dropped down a slick of basalt before? There were significant color changes apparent just from rubbing that particular bolt. I was putting a lot of weight into that thin piece of unknown metal. But worse than that was my webbing. No thicker than a typical piece of cardboard, only as wide as my index finger and it was stitched! By a machine worked by whom? And what kind of thread? Hadn't I once heard a story about a man's webbing that was slowly being severed by a jagged edge while he dangled on it? Another millimeter through and he would have dropped. I inspected my webbing. It seemed OK. But what about my harness?! I have had one fail before and was part of a recall.
On and on this went while I searched for foot holds, hand holds, anything to which I could cling since some major piece of gear was apt to give out at any moment and I would tumble to my death or worse. My feet were aching from the climb and the shoes to which I am no longer accustomed. But I had to keep my shoes on in order to provide a bit of purchase on the rock. My hands were rubbed nearly raw in places but I couldn't take them off the wall lest my harness suddenly disintegrated. And I kept looking down. Imagining the awful fall that would end painfully on that thin, triangular rock down there. The same rock that I would use to shimmy my way down to the ground in just a few moments. Is this what it is like for people who fear heights? This panic stricken numbness where every thought of every imaginable failure permeates your being and renders you helpless? This is awful!
But no. I am Katy. I am not scared of heights. I don't ponder the unquantifiable dangers. I just climb, jump, glide, speak, swim, dive all without thinking through most consequences. I like to do stuff just to see what happens. Irrational fear will not enter my climbing experience.
I decided to follow my mantra, what will be, will be. If some piece of gear suddenly failed and I tumbled to my death at The City then such is life. Such is death, too, I suppose. It could be no worse than dying at a nursing home at 86. And so I turned the panic off. Hysteria started expeditiously and just as swiftly it was gone. In its place a sense of the same accord that is usually reserved for the top of a hill. Where there is sometimes an unanimity with nature, in its stead there is now a fraction of understanding of life's cycle, a sense of peace with my maker and an acceptance of the unmaker that I will one day meet. I have no wish to end here, I am nowhere near done savoring the physical world for there is still much to climb, I have yet to jump or glide or swim or dive my fill. And yet somehow, knowing that I am on a journey to know this life, well then, I am further ahead than I was yesterday.
And what will be, will be.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
Just once I wish I could play puppet master. Make everyone's actions correspond to my own selfish desires. Do what I want with little regard for the feelings of others and have no guilt, no repercussions, emotional or otherwise. I wish I could force contact and happiness and make the world right according to Katy.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
perfection
Given enough solo time on a candlelit covered deck, during a rain storm, with a glass of whiskey and Girlyman on the surround sound, I could solve all the world's problems. Or at least question myself into a state of blissful befuddlement.
Splendid cacophony.
The flame flickers against beige siding as my gentleman caller promises love everlasting through plastic speakers. A continuous peltpeltpelt reassures me that no matter how things change... they will always stay the same. I have oft felt that we are where we aspire to be. No matter if I am a SCUBA diving, world traveling, gear plugging, canyoneering incendiary provocateur in my own mind, I cannot escape the reality of the banality of my suburban life.
Crystal balls don't exist. We must forge our own path and know that it is what it is. The paths we are currently constructing form the road that we will follow. Is every decision a piece of the pattern that will design our lives? Does it take extreme selfishness or extreme courage to lead a life less ordinary? Is it really selfishness to seek your own destiny? To asseverate with assurance, "this is what I want." and then contrive to have it? Let the others sort out the details.
I read once some trifling maxim "Never regret anything, because at one time it was exactly what you wanted." I had always thought it a facile way to view a complex life.
Splendid cacophony.
The flame flickers against beige siding as my gentleman caller promises love everlasting through plastic speakers. A continuous peltpeltpelt reassures me that no matter how things change... they will always stay the same. I have oft felt that we are where we aspire to be. No matter if I am a SCUBA diving, world traveling, gear plugging, canyoneering incendiary provocateur in my own mind, I cannot escape the reality of the banality of my suburban life.
Crystal balls don't exist. We must forge our own path and know that it is what it is. The paths we are currently constructing form the road that we will follow. Is every decision a piece of the pattern that will design our lives? Does it take extreme selfishness or extreme courage to lead a life less ordinary? Is it really selfishness to seek your own destiny? To asseverate with assurance, "this is what I want." and then contrive to have it? Let the others sort out the details.
I read once some trifling maxim "Never regret anything, because at one time it was exactly what you wanted." I had always thought it a facile way to view a complex life.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
shiver me timbers.
done done done done!!!!!!
How is my picker SO bad?! I thought I'd learned. I thought I knew how to scrutinize people and look out for the ones that weren't nice. How hard is it to be nice!? I don't think that I am sought out by people looking to take advantage of someone. Instead I seem to be this clandestine doormat. Normal, average people come into contact with me and initially see a strong person, no one sees me as a victim. But somehow the layers get peeled back and my true self is revealed. These seemingly nice people just can't help themselves. A woman that appeared strong, fortified and indestructibly cheerful has now revealed herself as a weak, defenseless and eternally seeking praise sort of pusillanimous individual. And what is a normal person to do? Why then, s/he seeks to ruin said pillar of strength. Tear down any resolve, expose every weakness, exploit every fault to make sure that the pillar then knows that she is nothing. She is a crappy, frail, supine individual made into a malleable creature just seeking your condemnation.
Bring it on, World. I can take it all.
How is my picker SO bad?! I thought I'd learned. I thought I knew how to scrutinize people and look out for the ones that weren't nice. How hard is it to be nice!? I don't think that I am sought out by people looking to take advantage of someone. Instead I seem to be this clandestine doormat. Normal, average people come into contact with me and initially see a strong person, no one sees me as a victim. But somehow the layers get peeled back and my true self is revealed. These seemingly nice people just can't help themselves. A woman that appeared strong, fortified and indestructibly cheerful has now revealed herself as a weak, defenseless and eternally seeking praise sort of pusillanimous individual. And what is a normal person to do? Why then, s/he seeks to ruin said pillar of strength. Tear down any resolve, expose every weakness, exploit every fault to make sure that the pillar then knows that she is nothing. She is a crappy, frail, supine individual made into a malleable creature just seeking your condemnation.
Bring it on, World. I can take it all.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Done.
When I think of how to describe myself one of the adjectives that comes to mind is giving. I enjoy making people happy whether it be with a photo session to capture a once in a lifetime moment or a favorite meal cooked with love. My acts of service are gifts that are given with love. This means that I will drop everything to celebrate a friend's birthday or cancel a ski lesson to attend a baby shower or find a special purse for a loved one while on vacation. If someone needs maternity clothes I will raid my basement stash and pass everything on with love, whether I have future plans for them or not.
And time and time and time again this ends up biting me right in my giant ass. The maternity clothes don't get returned when they're needed, the mother-to-be at the baby shower acts as if I'm not in attendance, the dinner made with specialty store ingredients is shoveled in as if it were from a box and not a word of thanks is uttered.
When I strive to make my friends feel important to me it is not so that it will one day be reciprocated. But is it really too much to ask that once in awhile it is?!? Is it too much to ask a friend of over 10 years, someone that I've known longer than my husband to be late to a single kid's soccer game to celebrate my own baby shower? Or a friend that I consider an actual sister from another mister to not plan her own birthday party during my son's first birthday party? I don't want to get petty and lay out all the multitudinous chores, labors of love that I have performed for this dear friend but suffice it to say that, as usual, the give and take is pretty much give and receive.
I am finding this more and more to be a pattern in my life. Why is that? Friends that I have loved for years are revealing themselves to be lacking in ways I have never seen before. Am I really such a pushover? Because along with giving I would include strong. Gullible would make its way into a top ten list of adjectives, but I had always passed that one off as a funny trait of mine. I am now finding it to not be quite so funny. I have gulled myself into trusting the untrustworthy, befriending the unworthy and giving to the takers.
And time and time and time again this ends up biting me right in my giant ass. The maternity clothes don't get returned when they're needed, the mother-to-be at the baby shower acts as if I'm not in attendance, the dinner made with specialty store ingredients is shoveled in as if it were from a box and not a word of thanks is uttered.
When I strive to make my friends feel important to me it is not so that it will one day be reciprocated. But is it really too much to ask that once in awhile it is?!? Is it too much to ask a friend of over 10 years, someone that I've known longer than my husband to be late to a single kid's soccer game to celebrate my own baby shower? Or a friend that I consider an actual sister from another mister to not plan her own birthday party during my son's first birthday party? I don't want to get petty and lay out all the multitudinous chores, labors of love that I have performed for this dear friend but suffice it to say that, as usual, the give and take is pretty much give and receive.
I am finding this more and more to be a pattern in my life. Why is that? Friends that I have loved for years are revealing themselves to be lacking in ways I have never seen before. Am I really such a pushover? Because along with giving I would include strong. Gullible would make its way into a top ten list of adjectives, but I had always passed that one off as a funny trait of mine. I am now finding it to not be quite so funny. I have gulled myself into trusting the untrustworthy, befriending the unworthy and giving to the takers.
Old loves made new again
An old friend has recently returned to my life. He and I were never close but ours was an amiable enough acquaintance. Through the magic of social networking we are forging a new and unexpected friendship. We have been sharing music and my world is expanding. I have always felt music fervidly. As a confirmed, though somewhat clandestine, poetry fan a song's lyrics can pierce me. As for the harmonies, chords and keys I have my preferences. My girly guys with their guitars are my favorite but my range of music loves are illimitable.
Through sharing I have found new girly guys, heard new poems and rediscovered past loves. The voice of Evanescence has always captivated me. Her mournful laments can cause me to take a deep breath before life can continue. While My Immortal has struck me with the beauty of her plaintive cries, I have never pondered much the lyrics, or their intendment. Having been given this to contemplate I heard it with fresh ears. And the poetry that lies at the soul of this song... well it pierces me.
As a teenage girl finding her life mapped through the words of Brandon Flowers I find my very own meaning in this song. How much time can pass before the wounds do heal? Some inflictions are too deep, the scar still brings pain when one stops to gaze upon it. If you are the one holding the memory dear, how can the person leave? And a lifetime spent with the memory of a phantom does not disappear with mere years of silence. Regardless of the eidolon stemming from a childhood dream, the pain does not disperse simply because there is no reality.
Through sharing I have found new girly guys, heard new poems and rediscovered past loves. The voice of Evanescence has always captivated me. Her mournful laments can cause me to take a deep breath before life can continue. While My Immortal has struck me with the beauty of her plaintive cries, I have never pondered much the lyrics, or their intendment. Having been given this to contemplate I heard it with fresh ears. And the poetry that lies at the soul of this song... well it pierces me.
As a teenage girl finding her life mapped through the words of Brandon Flowers I find my very own meaning in this song. How much time can pass before the wounds do heal? Some inflictions are too deep, the scar still brings pain when one stops to gaze upon it. If you are the one holding the memory dear, how can the person leave? And a lifetime spent with the memory of a phantom does not disappear with mere years of silence. Regardless of the eidolon stemming from a childhood dream, the pain does not disperse simply because there is no reality.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Getting Out
Spring fever has hit. And with what force! It may be that the Summer on 2009 was the "summer that never warmed". After all, my son celebrated his 4th of July birthday playing in the snow. Remember that, Pocatello? Streets turned into oil slicked pools and were blocked off by fire trucks. Note the utter befuddlement displayed across this newly-turned 2 year old boy's face as he holds snow. On Independence Day. Shouldn't we have been playing in a lake instead of huddled inside watching massive amounts of snow/hail accumulate on the deck outside?Or it could be that I had a baby last summer. Pregnancy and newborns tend to take a bit of the carefree joviality that can be often felt through the warmer months. My little guy was pretty travel-friendly and we did swim and play a lot. But being weighed down by strollers, nursing covers and pack&plays will detract from the natural buoyancy of sunny days.
Or perhaps I am over-thinking this. I have been recently accused of that sort of thing. I may be thinking through every nuance of "why" for a simple case of Spring Fever. And what cures Spring Fever better than Outside Playtime! So let's explore what to do. If you don't plan to join the droves with tent and BBQ in the trunk of your sedan to a nearby camp site then at least plan a walk, a hike, a pleasant bike ride. I am exploring options for some day hikes. My family and I went on a pleasantly strenuous hike around the base of Scout Mountain a few weeks ago and it definitely ranked high on my list of recent enjoyments. All we needed were some eco-friendly water bottles, two baby back packs, a camera and some dried fruit and we were off.
We drove as far up the road to Scoat as Forest Service allowed. The main gate is still closed, so we parked and started down the steep embankment. We were temporarily foiled by the large creek but some bush-whacking and a sense of the spirit of adventure got us past the current and onto a trip up the hills. We meandered with kids on our backs. We saw bugs and trees and flowers. My now nearly three year old overcame some of his natural trepidation to all things new and my nearly one year old slept, laughed, ate and had a very good time on his dad's back for a few hours. It didn't take any planning and we were only gone for a few hours, but we never saw another soul and that spring mountain air was sweet.
We may do the oft hiked "Gibson Jack Loop" this weekend, weather and time permitting. With most outdoor type people out having real adventures, I assume a serene walk will be possible. But if we run into you, stop and say "hi!". Tell me you read my blog and make my day! And be sure to post your own travels on here.
If you'd like more information on local hikes check the following links.
Gibson Jack Loop
This site requires a fee for full usage but plenty of information is available on the free portion. If you need more information than is given, just search. Plenty of kindly folks blog their adventures and will include trailhead info and more.
Details of local trails can be found here.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
This is what pain sounds like
Occasionally words fail to impart the intended meaning. Sometimes the words come too expediently and with such force that the intendment cannot be deciphered. And sometimes the words must be stolen from another, set to music and be sung by an earthbound divinity in order to justly convey the correct message.
I forgot how much I love this song. It was set to repeat on my mp3 player many moons ago. I replayed this until the iteration finally dulled the agony of a lost life. Having lost that music machine to a particularly hard concrete floor I lost a lot of music that I'd loved dearly. This song being among them.
Recent events have renewed my passion for music and I have been trying to fill my newer music machine. I just happened across this aging gem. Listening to it now, in the light of a new day, the meaning still holds true but new layers have been added. It does not galvanize fresh pain, as I thought it might. Instead it provides a new perception of past events.
Because we've had our doubts. But now we're fine.
I love this song. And this live version is so raw and beautiful. It's now set to repeat.
I forgot how much I love this song. It was set to repeat on my mp3 player many moons ago. I replayed this until the iteration finally dulled the agony of a lost life. Having lost that music machine to a particularly hard concrete floor I lost a lot of music that I'd loved dearly. This song being among them.
Recent events have renewed my passion for music and I have been trying to fill my newer music machine. I just happened across this aging gem. Listening to it now, in the light of a new day, the meaning still holds true but new layers have been added. It does not galvanize fresh pain, as I thought it might. Instead it provides a new perception of past events.
Because we've had our doubts. But now we're fine.
I love this song. And this live version is so raw and beautiful. It's now set to repeat.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Ignore the images, it's the song that makes my heart skip beats
The Shape You Found Me In
My newest obsession, Girlyman.
This voice, the guitar and the lyrics all combine to stir and soften my defenses. The chords blend together in a honeyed accumulation of all that is right with music. This song makes me want to write cryptic poetry and explore every nuance of the libretto that is The Shape You Found Me In.
On first listen this song is sagaciously simple. An uncomplicated love song set to stylish guitar chords and sang by a seraph. However, like a luxurious Scotch the stratum reveal themselves to be subtlety hidden and will emerge over several samplings.
I want to dismantle every lyric. I want to explicate every analogy and decipher every line. But why would I plunder from the enigmatic puzzle? Any interpretation that I could provide would serve no purpose save to insinuate my mundane opinions into a piece of art to which I have no claim. Instead just listen. Then hear. Appreciate.
And the next poem on my blog that you don't want to understand will probably fit this shape.
My newest obsession, Girlyman.
This voice, the guitar and the lyrics all combine to stir and soften my defenses. The chords blend together in a honeyed accumulation of all that is right with music. This song makes me want to write cryptic poetry and explore every nuance of the libretto that is The Shape You Found Me In.
On first listen this song is sagaciously simple. An uncomplicated love song set to stylish guitar chords and sang by a seraph. However, like a luxurious Scotch the stratum reveal themselves to be subtlety hidden and will emerge over several samplings.
I want to dismantle every lyric. I want to explicate every analogy and decipher every line. But why would I plunder from the enigmatic puzzle? Any interpretation that I could provide would serve no purpose save to insinuate my mundane opinions into a piece of art to which I have no claim. Instead just listen. Then hear. Appreciate.
And the next poem on my blog that you don't want to understand will probably fit this shape.
Happy Mother's Day!
Ok, so the grocery store flower pot hasn't arrived via a beaming child yet but you've thought about what your day will be like, right? Perhaps you'll sleep in and awake to a warm breakfast in bed, then a leisurely stroll through a local trail. You'll get to hear the birds sing their songs of happiness and feel the dappled sunshine on your back...
Wait! Reality. If your mother's day is anything like the 2 that I've already experienced you know that this fantasy will stay just that this Sunday, a fantasy. A dream to be lived out when you get a housekeeper, a nanny, a personal chef, a weather control machine... oh yeah, and a separate house for yourself so you can sleep in. Or just sleep.
As for my third Mother's Day, I expect it will be quite indistinguishable from any other Sunday. I'll wake up at 7:00 am to a very happy and very hungry young man. Shortly after the bottle has been gulped down but before the Cheerios have been consumed then the coffee that I made myself will be done brewing. I'll pour a warm mug and then head up the stairs to get the other young man in my life. This one won't be quite as happy and a battle over chocolate soy milk versus vanilla soy milk will ensue. Someone will win and Hershey's stock will go up just a bit. The day will continue ad nauseam. Naps will commence, arguments and temper tantrums will ensue. I will make an acceptably edible dinner and probably fold some laundry. And all day it will be Mother's Day.
What is this supposed to mean to me? To my husband? It means nothing to my children as they're too young to begin to grasp a concept as foreign as every single day not being solely dedicated to their pleasure and enjoyment.
Am I meant to relish my children all day? I do delight in my children every day but I certainly don't gush over them constantly. In fact sometimes I outright ignore them. I have never made a secret of the tribulations that I have experienced with my transition to motherhood. My first son, Killian, was born almost 3 years ago and he came home a colicky and finicky little infant. He cried when I would turn on the bedroom light, when I set him down, when I bathed him, when he breathed... And I do hear that he'll outgrow colic soon...
Almost one year ago my second son, Kolter, was born. A fatter or happier baby there has never been. He is adored by all but the time consumption of two very young children is a daily challenge for someone as selfish as me. The lack of sleep alone could, and sometimes does, drive me to tears. Having two kids means never again having a quiet house. For when one is asleep the other is certain to be awake. As a woman who thoroughly enjoys both writing and reading these two pursuits have largely gone the way of skinny jeans for me. That is, to the thrift store to be enjoyed by someone with a life different than mine.
Someone that doesn't have to wake up at 7 am every day of the week and immediately start meeting the needs of others. Someone that doesn't discuss potty-training methods over chicken nuggets at the playland. Someone that isn't screamed at 86 times before 9 in the morning. Someone that has showered alone and had time to paint her nails. Someone that didn't stumble down the hallway to soothe a fevered babe the night before. Someone that doesn't know the words to Where the Wild Things Are by heart.
Someone else. Someone that doesn't have a beatific smile bestowed on her by a shaggy haired blond cherub just for walking into his room. Someone that doesn't get to snuggle a warm and sleeping baby and feel the love emanating from within her soul at the sound of those sweet little breaths. Someone that has never juggled two young kids, one on each hip, and watched as they laughed at each other for no reason at all and thought, "this completes me."
Someone with a kitchen table absent of a vase filled with grocery store carnations and a football balloon that the boys picked out and their dad just couldn't bear to say no.
And perhaps that's what Mother's Day is meant to be. Just a day to look around at your family and know that you made them and they are yours. Whether or not you have a great husband like I am blessed with, whether you have a child in the making, one already out of the house or somewhere in between, they are yours. You have made your family what it is. And you don't need a breakfast in bed or a languid pedicure to appreciate the life that you have made, the woman that you are, the mom that you strive to be. Because your gifts are already with you. They're probably pulling at your hair and flinging jam in the kitchen as you read this. But soon, one of them will come in with sticky fingers and only one sock on and this amazing person will want a cuddle for no reason at all. And that beats out a novel in the tub any day, doesn't it?
Happy Mother's Day.
Ok, so the grocery store flower pot hasn't arrived via a beaming child yet but you've thought about what your day will be like, right? Perhaps you'll sleep in and awake to a warm breakfast in bed, then a leisurely stroll through a local trail. You'll get to hear the birds sing their songs of happiness and feel the dappled sunshine on your back...
Wait! Reality. If your mother's day is anything like the 2 that I've already experienced you know that this fantasy will stay just that this Sunday, a fantasy. A dream to be lived out when you get a housekeeper, a nanny, a personal chef, a weather control machine... oh yeah, and a separate house for yourself so you can sleep in. Or just sleep.
As for my third Mother's Day, I expect it will be quite indistinguishable from any other Sunday. I'll wake up at 7:00 am to a very happy and very hungry young man. Shortly after the bottle has been gulped down but before the Cheerios have been consumed then the coffee that I made myself will be done brewing. I'll pour a warm mug and then head up the stairs to get the other young man in my life. This one won't be quite as happy and a battle over chocolate soy milk versus vanilla soy milk will ensue. Someone will win and Hershey's stock will go up just a bit. The day will continue ad nauseam. Naps will commence, arguments and temper tantrums will ensue. I will make an acceptably edible dinner and probably fold some laundry. And all day it will be Mother's Day.
What is this supposed to mean to me? To my husband? It means nothing to my children as they're too young to begin to grasp a concept as foreign as every single day not being solely dedicated to their pleasure and enjoyment.
Am I meant to relish my children all day? I do delight in my children every day but I certainly don't gush over them constantly. In fact sometimes I outright ignore them. I have never made a secret of the tribulations that I have experienced with my transition to motherhood. My first son, Killian, was born almost 3 years ago and he came home a colicky and finicky little infant. He cried when I would turn on the bedroom light, when I set him down, when I bathed him, when he breathed... And I do hear that he'll outgrow colic soon...
Almost one year ago my second son, Kolter, was born. A fatter or happier baby there has never been. He is adored by all but the time consumption of two very young children is a daily challenge for someone as selfish as me. The lack of sleep alone could, and sometimes does, drive me to tears. Having two kids means never again having a quiet house. For when one is asleep the other is certain to be awake. As a woman who thoroughly enjoys both writing and reading these two pursuits have largely gone the way of skinny jeans for me. That is, to the thrift store to be enjoyed by someone with a life different than mine.
Someone that doesn't have to wake up at 7 am every day of the week and immediately start meeting the needs of others. Someone that doesn't discuss potty-training methods over chicken nuggets at the playland. Someone that isn't screamed at 86 times before 9 in the morning. Someone that has showered alone and had time to paint her nails. Someone that didn't stumble down the hallway to soothe a fevered babe the night before. Someone that doesn't know the words to Where the Wild Things Are by heart.
Someone else. Someone that doesn't have a beatific smile bestowed on her by a shaggy haired blond cherub just for walking into his room. Someone that doesn't get to snuggle a warm and sleeping baby and feel the love emanating from within her soul at the sound of those sweet little breaths. Someone that has never juggled two young kids, one on each hip, and watched as they laughed at each other for no reason at all and thought, "this completes me."
Someone with a kitchen table absent of a vase filled with grocery store carnations and a football balloon that the boys picked out and their dad just couldn't bear to say no.
And perhaps that's what Mother's Day is meant to be. Just a day to look around at your family and know that you made them and they are yours. Whether or not you have a great husband like I am blessed with, whether you have a child in the making, one already out of the house or somewhere in between, they are yours. You have made your family what it is. And you don't need a breakfast in bed or a languid pedicure to appreciate the life that you have made, the woman that you are, the mom that you strive to be. Because your gifts are already with you. They're probably pulling at your hair and flinging jam in the kitchen as you read this. But soon, one of them will come in with sticky fingers and only one sock on and this amazing person will want a cuddle for no reason at all. And that beats out a novel in the tub any day, doesn't it?
Happy Mother's Day.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Mmmmmmmmmmmassacre Rocks
Oh. My. Gawd.
My hands hurt. My thumb really hurts. My thighs ache and my feet are sore. And I am complete right now.
I hiked and carried an extremely fat and happy little giggler through sands that could weigh a person down. But they lifted me up! Every footfall was a piece of peace. Every burn in my body reminded me of the breath flowing through me. The monolith of slick basalt burgeoned in front of me, flourishing ahead with every tread of my toes. I laughed with my sweet nieces and basked in the rays of El Sol. The shade of a large Juniper has rarely been so sweet, like running through the sprinkler as a lass. A gentle breeze lifted my locks and nestled my irriguous flesh. The felicity of our spirits couldn't be dampened by the moodiness of the fairer sex in the face of slightly inhospitable terrain and less than ideal geographic locales.
Eventually, and after much dissension, we started toward Eagle Wall. That masterpiece of stone loomed ahead and beckoned one and all. Or maybe just me. That luscious crag sang like my personal siren and I heeded the call.
Once the approach was complete, many days of sand and sun later, two new friends waited to greet. Two harnesses full of jingleys and smiles across their visages was a salutation to warm a gal's heart. Jake and Landon. They have more brawn than brains but their gear left me salivating. I struck up a conversation and their pleasing dispositions just added to the charm of their musical rack of gear. We danced the dance of climbers at the rock,
"You ever been here before?"
"Nah, first time. You?"
"Not without a local!"
"What do you climb?"
"Do you plug gear?"
Where are you from?"
"Been to The City yet?"
"Gotta get the book!"
and it goes on.
We ended up sharing ropes and phone numbers. I look forward to spending days with them. And showing them how to best abuse their shiny gear, as they have nary a clue. 'Tis rare that I find someone with nuts on their harness that knows less than me about how to fare on a crag. I hope we learn together. These two Sweeties have just started their journey on the slab and I am anticipative of a reciprocation of learned knowledge.
Since the arduousness of Eagle was well beyond the capabilities at hand yours truly decided to take another hike in search of anchors from which to top rope. Left or Right? Right it is. Hubby and I started off with ropes, slings, harnesses... that's all we need, right? Rocks come from somewhere and if you hike along the base long enough you'll eventually find their starting point. But why wait?! See, that staircase right there? It looks built for a limber girl in sandals!
Oh the joy of scrambling. Candied hindrances melt into puzzles of the flesh and a passion is renewed. How can I forget that there is so much more to climbing than...climbing? There is hiking, plowing, reading, guessing, estimating, dragging, carrying, discovering! A mere climb at the archetypal roadside crag is nothing, it is a speck of that infernal sand down there, compared to this. CLIMBING. Seeking. Yes, seeking.
Ignoring the admonitions of safety that floated behind me, I instead pitch myself headlong into the elation of the scramble. Tearing off dried moss and begging my legs to bear my inexcusable weight I made it to a mesa of wonder. I brought my Ghost with me and inwardly sang in the breeze. A golden eagle soared just past, wondering at the loss of his solitude. I apologized for the intrusion. The flat landscape belied the spectacle of basalt just below. What a feeling! On a plain with visions of wagons of the past and a view of the treacherous Snake River below. Like a secret that so few know, just down there, just over that ledge, lies an enigmatic beauty. A marvel to be relished, that rock will not give up secrets to simply anyone.
A cool and breezy walk to the precipice allowed enough time to cool from the heat of the hike. A quick holler to check the position of the grounded and it's time to search out an anchor. With much back and forth from the peanut gallery a suitable anchor was located. Another round of safety admonitions and a quick check of gear (CRAP! Forgot the belay devices! *Smack self on forehead*.) a compromise between safe and seeking was reached.
The sketchiest top rope endeavor ever known was set-up and 80 feet of blue rope dangled down either side of those rusted chains. Exhilarating. A kindly niece sends up a belay device and one of the most stimulating open air rappels I have ever experienced ensues. How could I have forgotten what pure fun it can be to bounce off a wall from 70 feet up, on nothing more than a 10mm piece of twine? While not usually my most memorable portion of a trip, this rappel was nothing short of wondrous. Was it the the solitude? The sheer brazenness of the highly discouraged trip down the wire? Or was it the absolute freedom of being in complete control of my destiny in that moment?
I'll never know. But for some reason that rappel moved me. More than the climbing, more than the hiking, more than the sands. Flinging my body from arete to arete was more than freeing, it was... cathartic.
My hands hurt. My thumb really hurts. My thighs ache and my feet are sore. And I am complete right now.
I hiked and carried an extremely fat and happy little giggler through sands that could weigh a person down. But they lifted me up! Every footfall was a piece of peace. Every burn in my body reminded me of the breath flowing through me. The monolith of slick basalt burgeoned in front of me, flourishing ahead with every tread of my toes. I laughed with my sweet nieces and basked in the rays of El Sol. The shade of a large Juniper has rarely been so sweet, like running through the sprinkler as a lass. A gentle breeze lifted my locks and nestled my irriguous flesh. The felicity of our spirits couldn't be dampened by the moodiness of the fairer sex in the face of slightly inhospitable terrain and less than ideal geographic locales.
Eventually, and after much dissension, we started toward Eagle Wall. That masterpiece of stone loomed ahead and beckoned one and all. Or maybe just me. That luscious crag sang like my personal siren and I heeded the call.
Once the approach was complete, many days of sand and sun later, two new friends waited to greet. Two harnesses full of jingleys and smiles across their visages was a salutation to warm a gal's heart. Jake and Landon. They have more brawn than brains but their gear left me salivating. I struck up a conversation and their pleasing dispositions just added to the charm of their musical rack of gear. We danced the dance of climbers at the rock,
"You ever been here before?"
"Nah, first time. You?"
"Not without a local!"
"What do you climb?"
"Do you plug gear?"
Where are you from?"
"Been to The City yet?"
"Gotta get the book!"
and it goes on.
We ended up sharing ropes and phone numbers. I look forward to spending days with them. And showing them how to best abuse their shiny gear, as they have nary a clue. 'Tis rare that I find someone with nuts on their harness that knows less than me about how to fare on a crag. I hope we learn together. These two Sweeties have just started their journey on the slab and I am anticipative of a reciprocation of learned knowledge.
Since the arduousness of Eagle was well beyond the capabilities at hand yours truly decided to take another hike in search of anchors from which to top rope. Left or Right? Right it is. Hubby and I started off with ropes, slings, harnesses... that's all we need, right? Rocks come from somewhere and if you hike along the base long enough you'll eventually find their starting point. But why wait?! See, that staircase right there? It looks built for a limber girl in sandals!
Oh the joy of scrambling. Candied hindrances melt into puzzles of the flesh and a passion is renewed. How can I forget that there is so much more to climbing than...climbing? There is hiking, plowing, reading, guessing, estimating, dragging, carrying, discovering! A mere climb at the archetypal roadside crag is nothing, it is a speck of that infernal sand down there, compared to this. CLIMBING. Seeking. Yes, seeking.
Ignoring the admonitions of safety that floated behind me, I instead pitch myself headlong into the elation of the scramble. Tearing off dried moss and begging my legs to bear my inexcusable weight I made it to a mesa of wonder. I brought my Ghost with me and inwardly sang in the breeze. A golden eagle soared just past, wondering at the loss of his solitude. I apologized for the intrusion. The flat landscape belied the spectacle of basalt just below. What a feeling! On a plain with visions of wagons of the past and a view of the treacherous Snake River below. Like a secret that so few know, just down there, just over that ledge, lies an enigmatic beauty. A marvel to be relished, that rock will not give up secrets to simply anyone.
A cool and breezy walk to the precipice allowed enough time to cool from the heat of the hike. A quick holler to check the position of the grounded and it's time to search out an anchor. With much back and forth from the peanut gallery a suitable anchor was located. Another round of safety admonitions and a quick check of gear (CRAP! Forgot the belay devices! *Smack self on forehead*.) a compromise between safe and seeking was reached.
The sketchiest top rope endeavor ever known was set-up and 80 feet of blue rope dangled down either side of those rusted chains. Exhilarating. A kindly niece sends up a belay device and one of the most stimulating open air rappels I have ever experienced ensues. How could I have forgotten what pure fun it can be to bounce off a wall from 70 feet up, on nothing more than a 10mm piece of twine? While not usually my most memorable portion of a trip, this rappel was nothing short of wondrous. Was it the the solitude? The sheer brazenness of the highly discouraged trip down the wire? Or was it the absolute freedom of being in complete control of my destiny in that moment?
I'll never know. But for some reason that rappel moved me. More than the climbing, more than the hiking, more than the sands. Flinging my body from arete to arete was more than freeing, it was... cathartic.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Jedi!
I feel like there is an energy coursing through me lately! I have been creating again. I see photos everywhere I look and I have relearned to see beauty in the every day. I want to climb again. I really, really want to climb. Now. I want to climb out my stresses and climb to revel in my joy.
My meanie has been in a good place after a very, very long while of sickness and screaming. His twos are winding down into a charming three. He has a natural kind of thoughtfulness that he did not get from me but I appreciate it so much. I am learning empathy from a toddler. I know that the end of my child-bearing days are over and there is an absolute peace in that momentous decision. A freeing piece of knowledge that life can only get better. My sweetie just keeps getting fatter and sweeter. Teething is hard on him and he is quite addicted to me but again, knowing that my baby days are numbered allows for a kind of freedom to really enjoy it, not just endure it.
And my writing! I have been writing like a prisoner with nothing but a pen and tablet. I have been emailing and blogging and writing poetry again. I have so much inside of me lately that I must get it out. It doesn't necessarily need to go anywhere out into the cosmos, I just put it on my blog so that it is somewhere. I know no one save my closest internet-friends read this but even they don't need to. As always I have an audience in mind but that intended audience will never see my words. I don't know that I could write so freely if I thought anyone would actually look. I know you will, Stacy and Nikki, but the amazing thing about you is that you never judge and you have loved me through some of the worst times of my life. How much worse can it get in a blog?
So the Jedi that I know and love has returned! I am Katy again. I am not sure what that means, as I only have the faintest bit of knowledge gleaned from my husband and brother-in-law about The Force and whatnot, but I do know that outside forces have returned to enthuse me with a vigor of life and allow me to turn the draining parts into challenges to solve!
My meanie has been in a good place after a very, very long while of sickness and screaming. His twos are winding down into a charming three. He has a natural kind of thoughtfulness that he did not get from me but I appreciate it so much. I am learning empathy from a toddler. I know that the end of my child-bearing days are over and there is an absolute peace in that momentous decision. A freeing piece of knowledge that life can only get better. My sweetie just keeps getting fatter and sweeter. Teething is hard on him and he is quite addicted to me but again, knowing that my baby days are numbered allows for a kind of freedom to really enjoy it, not just endure it.
And my writing! I have been writing like a prisoner with nothing but a pen and tablet. I have been emailing and blogging and writing poetry again. I have so much inside of me lately that I must get it out. It doesn't necessarily need to go anywhere out into the cosmos, I just put it on my blog so that it is somewhere. I know no one save my closest internet-friends read this but even they don't need to. As always I have an audience in mind but that intended audience will never see my words. I don't know that I could write so freely if I thought anyone would actually look. I know you will, Stacy and Nikki, but the amazing thing about you is that you never judge and you have loved me through some of the worst times of my life. How much worse can it get in a blog?
So the Jedi that I know and love has returned! I am Katy again. I am not sure what that means, as I only have the faintest bit of knowledge gleaned from my husband and brother-in-law about The Force and whatnot, but I do know that outside forces have returned to enthuse me with a vigor of life and allow me to turn the draining parts into challenges to solve!
Friday, April 2, 2010
Oh.
How can two tiny little letters foretell the carnage waiting ahead? Oh. It is so simple it can bring one to tears. It can dash hopes and renew old fears. It reminds the recipient that nothing will ever count toward the category of appreciation, doesn't it? It conveys disappointment tinged with anger. It is a catalyst resulting in hurt feelings. Oh. can tell a story unto itself. A story with more words than one cares to say aloud so one just relies on two simple letters. But the story is told and the listener can dissect the true meaning. Nothing less than perfection. Tolerate no mistakes. I would have done it differently and better than you ever could. A word of advise, choose your Oh.s carefully, please.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
It's been awhile.
I thank you for Scotch and love and
Once
Falling slowly into bliss
Finding home and making a wish.
Time that stood still just flew like
Vapor
within a concrete mist.
An endless night to have and
To hold.
With patience and time
Poetic violation
Comes forth unseen but heard.
And in the end all is Right
and the list goes on.
Once
Falling slowly into bliss
Finding home and making a wish.
Time that stood still just flew like
Vapor
within a concrete mist.
An endless night to have and
To hold.
With patience and time
Poetic violation
Comes forth unseen but heard.
And in the end all is Right
and the list goes on.
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