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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.