It's about the shoes.
The strangest thing just happened to me. I'm at my favorite coffee shop, eking out my 1 hour of sacred writing time (it's been weeks), when an opportunity just arose to walk the walk. Before you read any further, watch this. Seriously, watch it. It's 4 minutes long, it's funny, kind, and perfect, especially in this season. It's also the impetus for what happened next:
A Firefighter on Bravery
So there I was (or rather, am)... chai latte steaming at my side, frantically working on an essay on step-parenting and bravery that is really trying to be born, when he slinks around the corner. "He" looks like he walked out of Portlandia as an extra. Hipster glasses, greasy shaggy hair, 3 day stubble, green drab jacket, converse sneakers. He's putting away an i-pad mini and a pack of American Spirits falls out of his jacket as he reaches my table. I'm aware of him; I've felt his eyes glance on me occasionally since I walked in here. He's maybe 26 at the most. He mumbles something I can't understand and his hands tremble as he replaces the pack of cigarettes. Nervously, he stands up and makes eye contact, and says in a strangely thin voice, "Hi, are you working? This is one of those working or studying tables, right?"
"Yeah. I'm writing. I come here to write."
He gives an awkward closed-lip smile. "That's cool. Writers are interesting. Would you mind if I visit with you?"
I don't mean the flash of embarrassment and then disdain that must cross my face, but I see it in the tight sadness of his expression. I stammer. "Sorry, I'm here to write. I only have a few hours a week. Sorry." I don't think I even make eye contact when I say the second sorry.
"I apologize for bothering you. Hope your writing goes well."
I can feel the wave of his humiliation, subtle but definite, as his shoulders slump and he walks to the other side of the partition in the coffee shop. He's got the shuffle step of rejection.
I go back to my writing. I'm trying to come up with some amazing metaphor about parenting and battlefields. I'm summoning up the many emotions I repress on a daily basis about step-parenting, and trying to given them a voice. I'm frustrated by the distraction and irritated by the interruption in what was a good flow. I come here to avoid interruption. This is my hiding place in a life full of interruptions and demands.
A feeling of vague unease settles around me. I'm bothered, and then it occurs to me-- it's about the shoes, dummy. (If you didn't watch the video, you'll have no idea what I'm talking about).
Looking around, I don't see him in plain sight, my interrupter. I take a drink of water, hit save on my computer screen, and get up. As I round the corner of the cafe, I can tell where's he's sitting by the insecure rounding of his shoulders. He's folded in on himself, hands around a coffee mug, seeking a safe invisibility. His hair really is greasy, and the mom in me wants to tell him he needs to take a shower and wash his hair if he intends on ever having a real conversation with a girl. I walk right up to the other side of his table, pull the seat out, and sit down with greater force than I intend. He stares for a second, wide-eyed and startled, then casts his eyes down to his mug. I'd like to say that the awkward-fest that followed was smoother than I'm portraying it, but it wasn't.
"Hi. I'm the lady that just told you to go away".
"I can see that. I didn't take it personally, you were busy."
"I was, I mean, I am, but I wanted to tell you I respect you as a person."
Yeah, I actually said that. Like I said.... awkward.
"You see, I'm married, I have four kids, and a full-time job, and I get like one hour, two a week at most to write, and this is where I come to get away and do that. It's my time, and I just want to tell you I wasn't rejecting you personally, I'm just trying to keep my time. I mean, you could be a very nice person, or an axe-murderer, but you deserve someone to tell you that you matter. Because you do."
"Wow. Okay. Uh, thanks. That's really cool that you're able to get away to write."
There's an awkward pause while we sit there across from each other, not making eye contact, and I can feel the heat of foolishness rise in my cheeks. Who do I think I am, Oprah? After 10 seconds of silence, I stand up and start to step away.
"Hey. I'm not a very social person and my counselor says I should try and be more social. And I'm lonely. I wasn't trying to hit on you or anything. Shit, do you really have four kids?"
We finally make eye contact, just for a second. "Really." He smiles widely. He has terrible teeth. He must realize that I am noticing this, and immediately clamps his lips back into a thin grimace. "Well, I only have an hour, so I'm going to get back to my writing. I hope you have a good day, and I hope you find a really good conversation."
"Thank you. I appreciate it. I really do." His hands tremble around his mug, and he's trying to control his smile.
Less than a minute has elapsed. I go back to my writing. (Here I am!) The metaphors don't come, but the desire to capture this moment, however ordinary and random, is there. I'll always be a New Yorker at heart, so eye contact and smiling at total strangers aren't something I practice with a whole lot of regularity. I spent so many years being hyper-vigilant of my space, of always readying myself against an unwanted advance, or worse, attack, that it takes a conscious effort to let my guard down when I'm alone. We put so much effort into creating our relative isolations. My chai is cold now, but I'm acutely aware of subtle spice, of the slight grainy texture of the cinnamon on my tongue as I swallow the last sip.
Out of the corner of my eye, I observe him get shut down two more times; once with a young college-age woman, another time with an elderly gentleman. As I'm half-way through writing this, he slips out the door. As he walks past the big glass windows separating cafe from sidewalk, he stops and pauses and looks in to where I'm sitting. This time I'm very deliberate about my eye contact, and I smile. He smiles back, even showing a little bit of teeth. He fumbles with a cigarette, lights it, and walks up the sidewalk, shoulders hunched protectively forward.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
I never had the opportunity to meet my father-in-law. Fred left this earth years before I had ever dreamed that there was a person out there in the world like Matt. I know a few things of him now; stories shared reverently by his sons, the soft sadness and fierce joy in my mother-in-law's eyes when she speaks of him, the occasional Jack Daniels-- neat, no other way-- my husband on rare occasion lifts in toast, the photos that I've seen. In one of those photos, he stands proud and poised by his wife, both of them dressed sharply, slacks and turtlenecks and trench coats, on a beach somewhere, wind whipped, smart, proud. It's an iconic photo, a portrait of partnership, endurance, and straight-up class. The other photo is of his final day, his body ravaged and gaunt from lung cancer, my heroically stoic mother-in-law equally taken with a quiet grief as she holds the hand of her partner slipping away, and Fred's 3 sons-- one with his brand-new baby, my stepson-- holding the space in love and absolute equanimity. For all that I'll never know of Fred, with full certainty I can say that this man was a giant. The other thing I've been told in the family narrative is that Fred was a died-in-the-wool railroad buff. He loved trains, knew routes and timetables by heart, could name any make and model of engine, and revered the graceful old stations as holy as any chapel.
I thought of Fred this morning as I waited at Union Station in Portland for my train. At first, I was a little ashamed. Fred would never have dreamed about catching a train in an old flannel shirt, jeans and boots, hair all haphazard, slightly ragged suitcase covered in a fine sheen of cat hair. I imagine Fred in that similar trench coat from the coast picture, and definitely a fedora. I can almost smell the warm worn leather of his briefcase. As I waited in line to board, I texted my husband: "Every time I board a train, I miss your dad for you."
The route to Seattle from Portland is lovely in so many ways, but the real magic is those first few minutes, leaving downtown. The gritty twisted steel, broken concrete, industrial jungle that the train lurches and crawls through, the pervasive emerald moss so thick it appears to have a pulsating heart beneath the dense cover; this is the landscape of the voyager. I relish that moss, in stark contrast to the oxidized beams and girders. Through those heavy industrialized first few minutes, the train is like a toddler, swaying, unsteady, tentatively waking and exploring. As we approach the Columbia, the tracks steady a bit, the creaking and lurching become a slow, steady roll. The mist is heavy and thick this morning, so thick you almost expect to taste it in your teeth through the window, so it's a bit of a shock when the sun breaks through my window as we gain the trestle.
Then... we are timeless, immortal, and existing in a moment that just feels like freedom. The low rumble of the diesel is like the bass line to a symphony, the blast of the train whistle a trumpet call to the rolling Columbia below. The river answers in shimmering silence, a landscape in the early morning of taupe and grey, dotted by the occasional makeshift camp on it's shores beneath the trestle. A wisp of smoke rises from a campfire, a heron glides prehistoric beneath the steel span. Bliss comes in the soft, insistent minuet of the train bell clanging in rhythm with every heavy girder flying by my window. There is such a methodical rightness to everything, a balance of nature and steel, and I feel my tired body slowly lulled into dreamy, musical sleep, all rumble and roll punctuated by the occasional staccato of the whistle. Momentum, equilibrium, a beautiful rightness to the world. This is for you, Fred.
I thought of Fred this morning as I waited at Union Station in Portland for my train. At first, I was a little ashamed. Fred would never have dreamed about catching a train in an old flannel shirt, jeans and boots, hair all haphazard, slightly ragged suitcase covered in a fine sheen of cat hair. I imagine Fred in that similar trench coat from the coast picture, and definitely a fedora. I can almost smell the warm worn leather of his briefcase. As I waited in line to board, I texted my husband: "Every time I board a train, I miss your dad for you."
The route to Seattle from Portland is lovely in so many ways, but the real magic is those first few minutes, leaving downtown. The gritty twisted steel, broken concrete, industrial jungle that the train lurches and crawls through, the pervasive emerald moss so thick it appears to have a pulsating heart beneath the dense cover; this is the landscape of the voyager. I relish that moss, in stark contrast to the oxidized beams and girders. Through those heavy industrialized first few minutes, the train is like a toddler, swaying, unsteady, tentatively waking and exploring. As we approach the Columbia, the tracks steady a bit, the creaking and lurching become a slow, steady roll. The mist is heavy and thick this morning, so thick you almost expect to taste it in your teeth through the window, so it's a bit of a shock when the sun breaks through my window as we gain the trestle.
Then... we are timeless, immortal, and existing in a moment that just feels like freedom. The low rumble of the diesel is like the bass line to a symphony, the blast of the train whistle a trumpet call to the rolling Columbia below. The river answers in shimmering silence, a landscape in the early morning of taupe and grey, dotted by the occasional makeshift camp on it's shores beneath the trestle. A wisp of smoke rises from a campfire, a heron glides prehistoric beneath the steel span. Bliss comes in the soft, insistent minuet of the train bell clanging in rhythm with every heavy girder flying by my window. There is such a methodical rightness to everything, a balance of nature and steel, and I feel my tired body slowly lulled into dreamy, musical sleep, all rumble and roll punctuated by the occasional staccato of the whistle. Momentum, equilibrium, a beautiful rightness to the world. This is for you, Fred.
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
It's a pretty innocuous thing, a leopard print sweater. The specimen in particular was the suburban jungle kind, cheap cotton cardigan, size M, $15 at Target. I'm not exactly know for my fashion sense, but below the tomboy exterior (usually clothed in jeans/ sweats/ t-shirt/ tank-top/ gore-tex, or any variation), is the bonafide heart of Liberace, sass of Coco Chanel, and sensibility of David Bowie. I have a pinterest account, and I'm not afraid to use it to post $2500 Louboutins and Vintage Versace gowns. I will never in my life own either of those (I have 4 children to put through college), but my heart secretly lusts for bias-cut silk and the blessed red underside of those sexy, sexy shoes. It's my dirty little secret, and even though I will gripe and moan about dressing up, there's a part of me that loves the thrill of something different.
... And then there's a leopard print cardigan, a kind of strange no-man's land somewhere between hoody and sweats and casual dress with cowboy boots (a favorite of mine, no matter how Portland cliche that may be). A 38-year-old woman wearing a leopard print cardigan can be one of several things. Maybe she is a spunky, fun, tragically hip SE Portland-living graphic designer (bangs are a must), not afraid to rock the leopard print, able to casually laugh at how irreverent and spontaneous she is, how she laughs in the face of fashion rules. The leopard print cardigan is a mere tiny little exclamation point to her ensemble, because she is fierce! feisty! and gloriously independent! She may as well be wearing $400 cashmere, because judgement be damned, she'll define her own fashion, thank you.
She could also be a cast member reject from Jersey Shore. The only things her leopard print will be missing are pleather pants and heels, big hair, and jewelry, lots of jewelry. She's the kind of woman you smell the perfume on 2 grocery aisles over, contemplating the endless subtle variations of canned spaghetti sauce, and suddenly catch a waft-- dear god, my sweet Aunt Ruth has risen from the dead-- only to find a vision of suburban perfection clickity clack around the corner. I secretly admire these women as much as I fear them, all big hair and floral-scented tacky sparkle, not giving a damn what your organic-carrot and kombucha buying, hoody-wearing ass thinks for a second. I'm pretty sure they all drive Escalades and are going to cut me off during left-turns when I'm on my bicycle, but that doesn't mean I can't celebrate their own special brand of femininity.
Or she's somebody's mom, or several somebody's mom. She will not just buy the Leopard print cardigan at Target, she will also buy the navy blue and black one because they are on sale for cheap, and this will be probably the only time she buys clothes for herself for months, and she's practical, if a little bored with it all. The leopard print cardigan will be almost an after thought after aisles in search of appropriate underwear for a 9-year-old girl, t-shirts that her middle-schooler will actually deem cool enough to wear, and flea treatment for the dog. The leopard print will catch her eye, a small beacon of subtle "wild child" in a sea of modesty and clothes for "the professional woman". (She is always secretly relieved she wears a uniform after seeing those). She will stuff it under the buzz-lightyear replacement sheets and the Halloween decorations, all while scowling and scoffing at the "50 Shades of Grey" paperbacks prominently displayed at the end of the book aisle, thinking "how lame and pedestrian"... because despite the outward aura of subdued and a little too tired, she knows kinky, she knows good sex and erotica, she has a leopard print cardigan that, bonus, she will wear with cowboy boots. She will ignore the side-eye from the 22-year-old checkout girl with the collarbone tat and pink streaks when she rings it up.
She'll be so impressed with herself for such a small act of domesticated subversion that she'll snap off the tag in the parking lot, and slide it over her very plain black tank top, and drive home in it. She may look in the mirror and note yes, how definitely cool it is, paired with her knock-off $10 aviator shades, all the more so with the booster seats also reflecting in that same mirror. The smell of somebody's day-old soccer socks threatens to offend her nostrils, but gives her a sense of peace, of place. She will pull up to the house, 4 sets of soccer cleats on the muddy porch, haphazard fort made out of pruned branches a created obstacle, and forget she is wearing it when she strides in the house.
This will be short lived, as she will be met with a tinny, loud, "WHAT is that you're wearing?" by her 7-year-old, shortly followed up with a "I love your Halloween costume, Mom!" by her 10-year-old. Her well-intentioned but filterless husband will poke his head around the corner and laugh... "you look like some 'Real Housewives' of New Jersey extra!" A small finger gesture from her will elicit a quick placation. "But I, uh, love it! Go leopard print! Yeah baby!" This over-enthusiasm will give her pause about two things: a) that he noticed actual clothing, and more surprisingly, b) that he knows what "Real Housewives of New Jersey" is.
None of this will matter, because she knows rock and roll is sometimes what you make of it. The leopard print cardigan has come home.
... And then there's a leopard print cardigan, a kind of strange no-man's land somewhere between hoody and sweats and casual dress with cowboy boots (a favorite of mine, no matter how Portland cliche that may be). A 38-year-old woman wearing a leopard print cardigan can be one of several things. Maybe she is a spunky, fun, tragically hip SE Portland-living graphic designer (bangs are a must), not afraid to rock the leopard print, able to casually laugh at how irreverent and spontaneous she is, how she laughs in the face of fashion rules. The leopard print cardigan is a mere tiny little exclamation point to her ensemble, because she is fierce! feisty! and gloriously independent! She may as well be wearing $400 cashmere, because judgement be damned, she'll define her own fashion, thank you.
She could also be a cast member reject from Jersey Shore. The only things her leopard print will be missing are pleather pants and heels, big hair, and jewelry, lots of jewelry. She's the kind of woman you smell the perfume on 2 grocery aisles over, contemplating the endless subtle variations of canned spaghetti sauce, and suddenly catch a waft-- dear god, my sweet Aunt Ruth has risen from the dead-- only to find a vision of suburban perfection clickity clack around the corner. I secretly admire these women as much as I fear them, all big hair and floral-scented tacky sparkle, not giving a damn what your organic-carrot and kombucha buying, hoody-wearing ass thinks for a second. I'm pretty sure they all drive Escalades and are going to cut me off during left-turns when I'm on my bicycle, but that doesn't mean I can't celebrate their own special brand of femininity.
Or she's somebody's mom, or several somebody's mom. She will not just buy the Leopard print cardigan at Target, she will also buy the navy blue and black one because they are on sale for cheap, and this will be probably the only time she buys clothes for herself for months, and she's practical, if a little bored with it all. The leopard print cardigan will be almost an after thought after aisles in search of appropriate underwear for a 9-year-old girl, t-shirts that her middle-schooler will actually deem cool enough to wear, and flea treatment for the dog. The leopard print will catch her eye, a small beacon of subtle "wild child" in a sea of modesty and clothes for "the professional woman". (She is always secretly relieved she wears a uniform after seeing those). She will stuff it under the buzz-lightyear replacement sheets and the Halloween decorations, all while scowling and scoffing at the "50 Shades of Grey" paperbacks prominently displayed at the end of the book aisle, thinking "how lame and pedestrian"... because despite the outward aura of subdued and a little too tired, she knows kinky, she knows good sex and erotica, she has a leopard print cardigan that, bonus, she will wear with cowboy boots. She will ignore the side-eye from the 22-year-old checkout girl with the collarbone tat and pink streaks when she rings it up.
She'll be so impressed with herself for such a small act of domesticated subversion that she'll snap off the tag in the parking lot, and slide it over her very plain black tank top, and drive home in it. She may look in the mirror and note yes, how definitely cool it is, paired with her knock-off $10 aviator shades, all the more so with the booster seats also reflecting in that same mirror. The smell of somebody's day-old soccer socks threatens to offend her nostrils, but gives her a sense of peace, of place. She will pull up to the house, 4 sets of soccer cleats on the muddy porch, haphazard fort made out of pruned branches a created obstacle, and forget she is wearing it when she strides in the house.
This will be short lived, as she will be met with a tinny, loud, "WHAT is that you're wearing?" by her 7-year-old, shortly followed up with a "I love your Halloween costume, Mom!" by her 10-year-old. Her well-intentioned but filterless husband will poke his head around the corner and laugh... "you look like some 'Real Housewives' of New Jersey extra!" A small finger gesture from her will elicit a quick placation. "But I, uh, love it! Go leopard print! Yeah baby!" This over-enthusiasm will give her pause about two things: a) that he noticed actual clothing, and more surprisingly, b) that he knows what "Real Housewives of New Jersey" is.
None of this will matter, because she knows rock and roll is sometimes what you make of it. The leopard print cardigan has come home.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Evolution of Adventure
An old friend of mine and his staggeringly talented collective released a new film recently with a tremendous collaboration of athletes, adventurers, and photographers, titled Into the Mind. It's a breathtaking meditation on what it is that drives humans to experience that ultimate edge of adventure, the thin and wavering line between glory and death. Full of achingly beautiful scenery, feats of athleticism and grace that defy description, and set to an incredible score, it's an absolute triumph of a film. I have angst about plopping down $1.29 for a song on itunes, but the day it was released, I gleefully threw down the $9.99 for the film.
It's a strange experience to watch a film like this, but even more so as a mother. Up until the birth of my son in 2003, my life was defined by adventure and exploration. At the height of my climbing ambitions, I was part of a group of women formulating plans to climb Ama Dablam, even though that never came to fruition. I've expeditioned at the roof of the world over 19,000 ft in the Himalaya, climbed numerous high alpine routes in the Western US, been pinned on a glacier in an epic snowstorm in Patagonia... I've been THAT smiling woman, the one with the high-altitude tan and tangled sun-bleached hair in pictures, grinning as wide as the sky, raising a victorious bloody-knuckled fist into the air. There was a point in my twenties when I had reached a level where it was time to take my adventures seriously and run with incredible athletes like my friend Jimmy (one of the "Into the Mind" collaborators), gain further sponsorship, and go the distance... or not.
I ended up taking a very different direction when I fell in love with my son's dad. Where a few of my cohorts turned right, I went left. Nothing will slow your roll towards alpine glory like the realization that if you continue on that path, you won't see your love for 6 weeks at a time, and that feels far more horrible than gasping for breath in thinned air, because that love becomes the oxygen to your 26-year-old self, and even worse... you may not come back. The list of friends and climbing acquaintances that have died in the mountains is a long one, and I shudder every time I hear of another death far afield. I sometimes picture a group of us standing almost 2 decades ago shoulder to shoulder in a circle, and then I see that same picture now, and the sparsity is startling. I will tell you that they died doing what they loved, that their deaths were akin to taking flight, but inside I'm questioning what it all really means, or even what it was for. I spend a large part of my career now walking with death, and while it is many things, I'm not sure it's what my friends ever set out of for, seeking some sort of glory in the finality. No one climbs to die, but there is a potent draw to edge closer in the dance, to taste and touch the very edge of the void that literally and figuratively is with you with every crampon step, every swing of the axe, every steep turn.
After a stint in the Himalayas, I found myself unemployed, in love, and then island bound for the remainder of my twenties. There were the occasional shorter trips, but nothing touching that far edge of exploration and reason, just longing for more. I worked a variety of jobs, and built a life with my then-husband. We dreamed of starting an adventure company in Nepal, of travels, climbs, and odesseys, but the reality was making a living on that small island and figuring out who we were in this new life. Just when I thought I had it figured out, something entirely unexpected happened-- pirate fetus boarded the mothership, and 10 months later, I embarked on what has been the most incredible, terrifying, joyous, grand adventure of my life.
The moment I held my son for the first time, everything I thought I knew dissolved. What blossomed was a love like I'd never even imagined, a feeling a thousand times more powerful than standing on a high pass between Nepal and Tibet. Other things changed, too, things I never would have expected. My ambition for "adventure achievement", if you will, took a new form. The glory was no longer in being one of the few to climb something new or difficult, it was simply in the act itself. I didn't want to bloody my knuckles trying to climb 5.12. I became content-- euphoric even-- to cruise a 5.6, to feel the simple joy of muscle and tendon moving over rock. I would read about a friend's first ascent of some Karakoram peak, all while nursing my baby. I couldn't help but wonder at the staggering duality of the lives we were living.
Life evolved again, but this time, it was survival, not adventure. By all accounts Zane's dad and I had a "good" divorce. There were moments in my high-octance climbing days that I was truly terrified, and none approached the new world, the utter consumption that is a marriage crumbling. Maybe it's an avalanche. You think you can ski the line, run it out, a little worse for the wear, a little frightened, but okay. The surprise is in thinking you're in a steady gentle slough, and then it's a wall of concrete, and you're fighting for breath, for movement, and for hope. You are survivors, skis broken, hopes shattered, disheveled and unsure, but somehow-- you have to start back up the mountain.
The "mountain" has been good to me. Always full of lessons, challenging, achingly beautiful, and never ending. In another unexpected turn, I find myself on an adventure of family and motherhood far vaster than I ever could have imagine. Like an experienced mountaineer, I've learned so much from the tragedy of the past.
There's a tenacity in me that I suspect I share with my friends on the likes of Nanga Parbat, albeit in radically different forms. Mine is the sheer will of choosing joy when the road is tumultuous, of consciously cultivating each day and appreciating the small victories. There's the joyous fierceness of watching my step-daughter figure out multiplication after weeks of tears and frustration, of hearing her brag to her father how smart she is. I get the bloody-knuckled victory of watching my sweet boy skillfully confront a schoolyard bully with kindness and an emotional depth far beyond his years. Instead of a bomber cam into a splitter granite crack, I have the warm tight squeeze of my youngest step-son's hand as he jets into his classroom, an inherent gesture of love and fortitude. I don't get to watch the sunlight break on a 6000 meter glacier, but the glow that alights over my step-son's face as he ever-so-furtively alludes to his first crush-- that, that is magic. These beautiful little people, watching them kick the steps into their own ascent, helpless at times as they fall, and marveling at the resilience as they stand back up, shake it off, and climb on. At night, there is no tent, no shivering under an icy still moon awaiting the 2AM start, but there is the sweet cadence of my husband's breath as he drifts off to sleep, as hushed and reverent as the rhythmic turn of skis. These are the moments of grace and triumph that I never could have imagined at 19,000ft, that I never saw in those pictures of the wild-haired girl on top of the world.
Funny, I started writing this blog post with every intention of painting the picture of watching "Into the Mind" with my husband and children. Their gasping amazement when I told them that yes, I had climbed mountains just like that, and the looks exchanged between my husband and I of "yes, we once were", the knowing that he, too, could feel the curve of the ice-axe in his hand as we watched the climbers on-screen. Our kids watched the film in awe and astonishment. In a truly chilling moment, they all, to a kid, said "I want to do something like that some day", and I knew on a cellular level the terror and angst my mother and father must have felt in my blooming and growing, in the absolute wild uncertainty of life. Finishing this post, something different has emerged.
Our adventuring days are far from over, but we will never be featured in a big-screen ski flick. We'll be the harried couple on the local hill with the 4 kids alternately bickering, laughing, and hucking themselves off home-made jumps. You may have seen us at Smith Rocks, our monkey children on top rope, shouting wild encouragement, high-fiving each other at how "rad" they all were. We didn't climb a vertical inch that day-- it was about passing the torch of experience, of tasting the sheer joy of feeling your body and mind work together to scale rock-- but we were the parents sneaking a shared "victory" beer behind the minivan while they all climbed into their respective booster seats, everyone intact, smiling, and stoked. Some day, you might see us in retirement, all our dog-eared mountain and ocean toys packed into a 4WD explorer van, planning the next adventure, sending postcards to our children and their children. I might not be hang-dogging a 12b, but I'll for damn sure be climbing, ascending, celebrating.
An old friend of mine and his staggeringly talented collective released a new film recently with a tremendous collaboration of athletes, adventurers, and photographers, titled Into the Mind. It's a breathtaking meditation on what it is that drives humans to experience that ultimate edge of adventure, the thin and wavering line between glory and death. Full of achingly beautiful scenery, feats of athleticism and grace that defy description, and set to an incredible score, it's an absolute triumph of a film. I have angst about plopping down $1.29 for a song on itunes, but the day it was released, I gleefully threw down the $9.99 for the film.
It's a strange experience to watch a film like this, but even more so as a mother. Up until the birth of my son in 2003, my life was defined by adventure and exploration. At the height of my climbing ambitions, I was part of a group of women formulating plans to climb Ama Dablam, even though that never came to fruition. I've expeditioned at the roof of the world over 19,000 ft in the Himalaya, climbed numerous high alpine routes in the Western US, been pinned on a glacier in an epic snowstorm in Patagonia... I've been THAT smiling woman, the one with the high-altitude tan and tangled sun-bleached hair in pictures, grinning as wide as the sky, raising a victorious bloody-knuckled fist into the air. There was a point in my twenties when I had reached a level where it was time to take my adventures seriously and run with incredible athletes like my friend Jimmy (one of the "Into the Mind" collaborators), gain further sponsorship, and go the distance... or not.
I ended up taking a very different direction when I fell in love with my son's dad. Where a few of my cohorts turned right, I went left. Nothing will slow your roll towards alpine glory like the realization that if you continue on that path, you won't see your love for 6 weeks at a time, and that feels far more horrible than gasping for breath in thinned air, because that love becomes the oxygen to your 26-year-old self, and even worse... you may not come back. The list of friends and climbing acquaintances that have died in the mountains is a long one, and I shudder every time I hear of another death far afield. I sometimes picture a group of us standing almost 2 decades ago shoulder to shoulder in a circle, and then I see that same picture now, and the sparsity is startling. I will tell you that they died doing what they loved, that their deaths were akin to taking flight, but inside I'm questioning what it all really means, or even what it was for. I spend a large part of my career now walking with death, and while it is many things, I'm not sure it's what my friends ever set out of for, seeking some sort of glory in the finality. No one climbs to die, but there is a potent draw to edge closer in the dance, to taste and touch the very edge of the void that literally and figuratively is with you with every crampon step, every swing of the axe, every steep turn.
After a stint in the Himalayas, I found myself unemployed, in love, and then island bound for the remainder of my twenties. There were the occasional shorter trips, but nothing touching that far edge of exploration and reason, just longing for more. I worked a variety of jobs, and built a life with my then-husband. We dreamed of starting an adventure company in Nepal, of travels, climbs, and odesseys, but the reality was making a living on that small island and figuring out who we were in this new life. Just when I thought I had it figured out, something entirely unexpected happened-- pirate fetus boarded the mothership, and 10 months later, I embarked on what has been the most incredible, terrifying, joyous, grand adventure of my life.
The moment I held my son for the first time, everything I thought I knew dissolved. What blossomed was a love like I'd never even imagined, a feeling a thousand times more powerful than standing on a high pass between Nepal and Tibet. Other things changed, too, things I never would have expected. My ambition for "adventure achievement", if you will, took a new form. The glory was no longer in being one of the few to climb something new or difficult, it was simply in the act itself. I didn't want to bloody my knuckles trying to climb 5.12. I became content-- euphoric even-- to cruise a 5.6, to feel the simple joy of muscle and tendon moving over rock. I would read about a friend's first ascent of some Karakoram peak, all while nursing my baby. I couldn't help but wonder at the staggering duality of the lives we were living.
Life evolved again, but this time, it was survival, not adventure. By all accounts Zane's dad and I had a "good" divorce. There were moments in my high-octance climbing days that I was truly terrified, and none approached the new world, the utter consumption that is a marriage crumbling. Maybe it's an avalanche. You think you can ski the line, run it out, a little worse for the wear, a little frightened, but okay. The surprise is in thinking you're in a steady gentle slough, and then it's a wall of concrete, and you're fighting for breath, for movement, and for hope. You are survivors, skis broken, hopes shattered, disheveled and unsure, but somehow-- you have to start back up the mountain.
The "mountain" has been good to me. Always full of lessons, challenging, achingly beautiful, and never ending. In another unexpected turn, I find myself on an adventure of family and motherhood far vaster than I ever could have imagine. Like an experienced mountaineer, I've learned so much from the tragedy of the past.
There's a tenacity in me that I suspect I share with my friends on the likes of Nanga Parbat, albeit in radically different forms. Mine is the sheer will of choosing joy when the road is tumultuous, of consciously cultivating each day and appreciating the small victories. There's the joyous fierceness of watching my step-daughter figure out multiplication after weeks of tears and frustration, of hearing her brag to her father how smart she is. I get the bloody-knuckled victory of watching my sweet boy skillfully confront a schoolyard bully with kindness and an emotional depth far beyond his years. Instead of a bomber cam into a splitter granite crack, I have the warm tight squeeze of my youngest step-son's hand as he jets into his classroom, an inherent gesture of love and fortitude. I don't get to watch the sunlight break on a 6000 meter glacier, but the glow that alights over my step-son's face as he ever-so-furtively alludes to his first crush-- that, that is magic. These beautiful little people, watching them kick the steps into their own ascent, helpless at times as they fall, and marveling at the resilience as they stand back up, shake it off, and climb on. At night, there is no tent, no shivering under an icy still moon awaiting the 2AM start, but there is the sweet cadence of my husband's breath as he drifts off to sleep, as hushed and reverent as the rhythmic turn of skis. These are the moments of grace and triumph that I never could have imagined at 19,000ft, that I never saw in those pictures of the wild-haired girl on top of the world.
Funny, I started writing this blog post with every intention of painting the picture of watching "Into the Mind" with my husband and children. Their gasping amazement when I told them that yes, I had climbed mountains just like that, and the looks exchanged between my husband and I of "yes, we once were", the knowing that he, too, could feel the curve of the ice-axe in his hand as we watched the climbers on-screen. Our kids watched the film in awe and astonishment. In a truly chilling moment, they all, to a kid, said "I want to do something like that some day", and I knew on a cellular level the terror and angst my mother and father must have felt in my blooming and growing, in the absolute wild uncertainty of life. Finishing this post, something different has emerged.
Our adventuring days are far from over, but we will never be featured in a big-screen ski flick. We'll be the harried couple on the local hill with the 4 kids alternately bickering, laughing, and hucking themselves off home-made jumps. You may have seen us at Smith Rocks, our monkey children on top rope, shouting wild encouragement, high-fiving each other at how "rad" they all were. We didn't climb a vertical inch that day-- it was about passing the torch of experience, of tasting the sheer joy of feeling your body and mind work together to scale rock-- but we were the parents sneaking a shared "victory" beer behind the minivan while they all climbed into their respective booster seats, everyone intact, smiling, and stoked. Some day, you might see us in retirement, all our dog-eared mountain and ocean toys packed into a 4WD explorer van, planning the next adventure, sending postcards to our children and their children. I might not be hang-dogging a 12b, but I'll for damn sure be climbing, ascending, celebrating.
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