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5.17.2011
5.05.2011
A letter too late
Dear Allison,
I met you almost a decade ago at the Ouray Ice Festival.
In a room full of fleece and Schoeller, you stood out in tight jeans, a halter top, and glitter. Lots of glitter.
While anti-social climbers jockeyed for position at the bar and avoided eye contact with girls, you owned the dance floor, your energy and excitement feeding the band, which played long after its scheduled set, just so you'd keep dancing.
I knew a little bit about you--you ran 100-mile races, you paddled huge rivers, you climbed three Black Canyon routes in a day, you were recently divorced--but nothing could have prepared me for your joyful, loving, warm presence.
You were unlike anyone else.
Years later at the Southern Sun, you'd just returned from a ski trip to Mongolia--Mongolia of all places--and you held court with tales of approaching peaks on horseback, sleeping in dung-fired yurts, and drinking yak butter tea.
Gross, I thought, in admiration of your healthy sense of adventure. As we drank beers and split cheese fries, you told me I should join you next year; you said you couldn't wait to go back. You thought it was paradise. I couldn't imagine such suffering.
You manifested strength and drive, but you were vulnerable, too, and sensitive. Life wasn't always easy for you --in fact, you faced and cleared plenty of obstacles. But you never seemed to dwell on them--you never let them stop you from seeing that even the most painful moments could be made better with a smile, a peek on the bright side, and a dash of sparkle.
Your wardrobe remains legendary for its feather-to-fabric ratio, its sparkle, its flair. In the first yoga class we took together, you turned heads in a miniskirt, sparkly hot pants, and a tube top. A tube top. A foot taller than everyone else in the room, you turned heads, too, because you were so incredibly beautiful, and you stretched into even the toughest poses like you were born to them.
One day, in the Wasatch backcountry, we got a little lost (you being brand new to the area and me with a worthless sense of direction). A storm was rolling in, limiting our visibility on the side of a peak facing a strange drainage.
I panicked (it's just what I do), but you pulled on a warm layer (hot pink, trimmed in fake fur) and said, "We'll get a better sense of where we are from the top. I'll break trail."
And off you went, setting a skin track steep enough to make the boys proud. I tried to keep up, alternating between being impressed and wanting you to slow the hell down.
You were right. We got a visual at the top, and, confident of our location, you dropped into the bowl arcing perfect turns, hooting gleefully.
Driving back down the canyon, I was starving, freezing, and exhausted. All I could think about was a hot shower and food and the couch.
You had other plans.
"I'm gonna take Dulce for a run, then go to yoga at 5:30. You in?"
Allison, I thought you were unstoppable.
It breaks my heart that you were stopped last week by an avalanche on Split Mountain. You were with your Kip, and I'm certain you were being safe; you fostered such a healthy respect for the mountains.
It was just one of those freak things no one could have predicted, but it seems so wrong; you weren't done--you were just getting started in this life.
I saw you for the last time in Boulder. We ran into each other by chance at Illegal Pete's. Johnny had just died, and we talked about how special he was, how, when he talked to you, he made you feel like the only person in the room.
That's just it, though, Allison -- you did, too.
Even through all this heartbreak and sadness--for you and for the myriad people who loved you--I have such gratitude. I'm grateful that I knew you, that I got to laugh with you, to follow in your joyful, glittery wake on mountain adventures.
Thank you for being a role model and a friend and a constant inspiration. Thank you for teaching me that you can always go on, that you're never too tired, that a smile transforms a room, that strong is beautiful, that you can always be friendly, that love is paramount, that glitter makes everything better.
I love you, Allison. RIP.
Your friend forever,
Katie
I met you almost a decade ago at the Ouray Ice Festival.
In a room full of fleece and Schoeller, you stood out in tight jeans, a halter top, and glitter. Lots of glitter.
While anti-social climbers jockeyed for position at the bar and avoided eye contact with girls, you owned the dance floor, your energy and excitement feeding the band, which played long after its scheduled set, just so you'd keep dancing.
I knew a little bit about you--you ran 100-mile races, you paddled huge rivers, you climbed three Black Canyon routes in a day, you were recently divorced--but nothing could have prepared me for your joyful, loving, warm presence.
You were unlike anyone else.
Years later at the Southern Sun, you'd just returned from a ski trip to Mongolia--Mongolia of all places--and you held court with tales of approaching peaks on horseback, sleeping in dung-fired yurts, and drinking yak butter tea.
Gross, I thought, in admiration of your healthy sense of adventure. As we drank beers and split cheese fries, you told me I should join you next year; you said you couldn't wait to go back. You thought it was paradise. I couldn't imagine such suffering.
You manifested strength and drive, but you were vulnerable, too, and sensitive. Life wasn't always easy for you --in fact, you faced and cleared plenty of obstacles. But you never seemed to dwell on them--you never let them stop you from seeing that even the most painful moments could be made better with a smile, a peek on the bright side, and a dash of sparkle.
Your wardrobe remains legendary for its feather-to-fabric ratio, its sparkle, its flair. In the first yoga class we took together, you turned heads in a miniskirt, sparkly hot pants, and a tube top. A tube top. A foot taller than everyone else in the room, you turned heads, too, because you were so incredibly beautiful, and you stretched into even the toughest poses like you were born to them.
One day, in the Wasatch backcountry, we got a little lost (you being brand new to the area and me with a worthless sense of direction). A storm was rolling in, limiting our visibility on the side of a peak facing a strange drainage.
I panicked (it's just what I do), but you pulled on a warm layer (hot pink, trimmed in fake fur) and said, "We'll get a better sense of where we are from the top. I'll break trail."
And off you went, setting a skin track steep enough to make the boys proud. I tried to keep up, alternating between being impressed and wanting you to slow the hell down.
You were right. We got a visual at the top, and, confident of our location, you dropped into the bowl arcing perfect turns, hooting gleefully.
Driving back down the canyon, I was starving, freezing, and exhausted. All I could think about was a hot shower and food and the couch.
You had other plans.
"I'm gonna take Dulce for a run, then go to yoga at 5:30. You in?"
Allison, I thought you were unstoppable.
It breaks my heart that you were stopped last week by an avalanche on Split Mountain. You were with your Kip, and I'm certain you were being safe; you fostered such a healthy respect for the mountains.
It was just one of those freak things no one could have predicted, but it seems so wrong; you weren't done--you were just getting started in this life.
I saw you for the last time in Boulder. We ran into each other by chance at Illegal Pete's. Johnny had just died, and we talked about how special he was, how, when he talked to you, he made you feel like the only person in the room.
That's just it, though, Allison -- you did, too.
Even through all this heartbreak and sadness--for you and for the myriad people who loved you--I have such gratitude. I'm grateful that I knew you, that I got to laugh with you, to follow in your joyful, glittery wake on mountain adventures.
Thank you for being a role model and a friend and a constant inspiration. Thank you for teaching me that you can always go on, that you're never too tired, that a smile transforms a room, that strong is beautiful, that you can always be friendly, that love is paramount, that glitter makes everything better.
I love you, Allison. RIP.
Your friend forever,
Katie
4.17.2011
We Do What We Can
I've had this post in mind for a while, but until today, I haven't been able to get the words in the right way. Too much distraction, too many tangents.
Then, as always, the Muse found her way through the noise, delivering a poem so apt I found myself nodding from the first line to the last.
After Reading There Might Be an Infinite Number of Dimensions
by Martha Silano
I'm thinking today of how we hold it together,
arrive on time with the bottle of Zinfandel, a six-pack
of Scuttlebutt beer, how we cover our wrinkles
with Visible Lift, shove the mashed winter squash
into the baby's mouth, how we hold it all together
despite clogged rain gutters, cracked
transmissions, a new explanation for gravity's
half-hearted hold. I'm wondering how we do it,
comb the tangles from our hair, trim the unwieldy
camellia, speak to packed crowds about weight loss
or fractals. I'm wondering how we don't
fall to our knees, knowing a hardened pea,
lodged in the throat, can kill, knowing
liquids are banned on all commercial flights.
Leaves fall. The baby sucks her middle fingers.
Meanwhile, the refrigerator acquires
an unexplainable leak. Meanwhile, we call
the plumber, open wide for the dental hygienist,
check each month, with tentative circlings,
our aging breasts. Somehow, each morning,
the coffee gets made. Somehow, each evening,
the crossing guard lifts fluorescent orange flag,
and a child and her father cross the glistening street.
It reminds me of William Stafford's Yes, long a favorite for its choice to focus on the positive:
It could happen any time, tornado,
earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen.
Or sunshine, love, salvation.
It could, you know. That's why we wake
and look out -- no guarantees
in this life.
But some bonuses, like morning,
like right now, like noon,
like evening.
It's easy to feel overwhelmed by the news. Everyone's reporting disaster, loss, intolerance, struggle. This winter brought such devastating events in such rapid succession that I almost forgot the pleasure of a happy surprise.
A friend's husband was diagnosed with advanced-stage cancer. This just a handful of years after she lost her fiance to a bad ski fall. Recovering from that, weathering this…it seems like too much to ask of one person, but by all accounts she is bearing the yoke with her trademark grace and strength.
Still, though, wtf?
But that's just it. We can't know wtf, because we're not in charge. We're so small, such a minor part of the structure. A month ago, the Earth shook its fist and over 13,000 people died in Japan.
We can throw our hands up and cry, "What's next, world?" Or we can look around and figure out how we can help. We can quietly take action and offer as much as possible, in whatever way we know how.
We do what we can.
A few weeks ago, in a neighborhood not far from mine, a garbage man found a puppy stuffed into a bag in a dumpster. He was with a littermate who'd been violently, horribly abused and killed.
The pup who survived was in desperate need of care. He was starving, with every rib and his spinal cord and hip bones jutting out of thinning fur (malnutrition causes fur loss, and this fellow was just about bald). He could barely walk; the little mobility he did have was hindered by a severe limp that migrated from leg to leg (the limp was linked to the malnutrition). The white of one of his eyes was bright red (blood) from being kicked or stomped.
It's a miracle he survived.
I heard about this puppy from a friend whose job involves rescuing animals and placing them in loving environments. She shared his photo and story on facebook; it moved me to act.
Well, that's not exactly true. First it moved me to anger. What is wrong with people? Who could do something so horrific? How could anyone harm a puppy? A PUPPY?
I tried to imagine harming the perpetrator. Inflicting physical pain of the "I'd-like-to-meet-that-punk-in-a-back-alley" variety, but that's just not me. I don't believe in violence, and I certainly don't believe in violence as teacher or rehabilitation.
Still, though, something had to be done. I looked at the photo, at the puppy's bald head and slight, starved body and thought, "I can help.”
We do what we can.
I can't donate enough money to save all the animals in the world, and I can't sift through forensic evidence to help figure out who hurt these particular dogs, but I can love like crazy and I can cuddle like a champion, and thought that would do for a while.
So home came the Tiny One -- all 5 pounds of him. He was so exhausted from the effort of surviving that for the first 3 days he just slept and slept and slept. There is a soft, low chair beside our woodstove, and the little guy moved right into it, snoozing hard and snuffling in his dreams. I couldn't help but wonder if he was having nightmares of his abuse, so I spent most of those first days stroking his thin fur, whispering to his slumbering body that he was safe now, that no one would ever harm him again, that he could rest here.
He woke for a few minutes at a time, just long enough for short cuddle sessions and to lap up some chicken broth. He also made best friends with Heating Pad, who became his constant napping companion. I periodically stuck a finger between the two, just to make sure we weren't baking the pup.
It's been three weeks since we brought the baby home.
He’s doubled in size.
No more skeletal body, more closely resembling Gollum than a puppy, the little guy has grown healthy, strong, curious, persistent, and playful. His fur is growing back soft and shiny, his limp is gone, and his eyes are clear and bright.
Sometimes, I’m so amazed by his transition that I whisper to Brad, “We did that.”
We do what we can.
Our dear friend Kolin has helped by shooting photos and videos of the puppy. This footage will help share his story, and find the best home possible for this sweet little fellow.
Here’s the first vid, taken when the little guy was still in recovery mode:
And here’s the most recent footage, from April 3:
Then, as always, the Muse found her way through the noise, delivering a poem so apt I found myself nodding from the first line to the last.
After Reading There Might Be an Infinite Number of Dimensions
by Martha Silano
I'm thinking today of how we hold it together,
arrive on time with the bottle of Zinfandel, a six-pack
of Scuttlebutt beer, how we cover our wrinkles
with Visible Lift, shove the mashed winter squash
into the baby's mouth, how we hold it all together
despite clogged rain gutters, cracked
transmissions, a new explanation for gravity's
half-hearted hold. I'm wondering how we do it,
comb the tangles from our hair, trim the unwieldy
camellia, speak to packed crowds about weight loss
or fractals. I'm wondering how we don't
fall to our knees, knowing a hardened pea,
lodged in the throat, can kill, knowing
liquids are banned on all commercial flights.
Leaves fall. The baby sucks her middle fingers.
Meanwhile, the refrigerator acquires
an unexplainable leak. Meanwhile, we call
the plumber, open wide for the dental hygienist,
check each month, with tentative circlings,
our aging breasts. Somehow, each morning,
the coffee gets made. Somehow, each evening,
the crossing guard lifts fluorescent orange flag,
and a child and her father cross the glistening street.
It reminds me of William Stafford's Yes, long a favorite for its choice to focus on the positive:
It could happen any time, tornado,
earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen.
Or sunshine, love, salvation.
It could, you know. That's why we wake
and look out -- no guarantees
in this life.
But some bonuses, like morning,
like right now, like noon,
like evening.
It's easy to feel overwhelmed by the news. Everyone's reporting disaster, loss, intolerance, struggle. This winter brought such devastating events in such rapid succession that I almost forgot the pleasure of a happy surprise.
A friend's husband was diagnosed with advanced-stage cancer. This just a handful of years after she lost her fiance to a bad ski fall. Recovering from that, weathering this…it seems like too much to ask of one person, but by all accounts she is bearing the yoke with her trademark grace and strength.
Still, though, wtf?
But that's just it. We can't know wtf, because we're not in charge. We're so small, such a minor part of the structure. A month ago, the Earth shook its fist and over 13,000 people died in Japan.
We can throw our hands up and cry, "What's next, world?" Or we can look around and figure out how we can help. We can quietly take action and offer as much as possible, in whatever way we know how.
We do what we can.
A few weeks ago, in a neighborhood not far from mine, a garbage man found a puppy stuffed into a bag in a dumpster. He was with a littermate who'd been violently, horribly abused and killed.
The pup who survived was in desperate need of care. He was starving, with every rib and his spinal cord and hip bones jutting out of thinning fur (malnutrition causes fur loss, and this fellow was just about bald). He could barely walk; the little mobility he did have was hindered by a severe limp that migrated from leg to leg (the limp was linked to the malnutrition). The white of one of his eyes was bright red (blood) from being kicked or stomped.
It's a miracle he survived.
I heard about this puppy from a friend whose job involves rescuing animals and placing them in loving environments. She shared his photo and story on facebook; it moved me to act.
Well, that's not exactly true. First it moved me to anger. What is wrong with people? Who could do something so horrific? How could anyone harm a puppy? A PUPPY?
I tried to imagine harming the perpetrator. Inflicting physical pain of the "I'd-like-to-meet-that-punk-in-a-back-alley" variety, but that's just not me. I don't believe in violence, and I certainly don't believe in violence as teacher or rehabilitation.
Still, though, something had to be done. I looked at the photo, at the puppy's bald head and slight, starved body and thought, "I can help.”
We do what we can.
I can't donate enough money to save all the animals in the world, and I can't sift through forensic evidence to help figure out who hurt these particular dogs, but I can love like crazy and I can cuddle like a champion, and thought that would do for a while.
So home came the Tiny One -- all 5 pounds of him. He was so exhausted from the effort of surviving that for the first 3 days he just slept and slept and slept. There is a soft, low chair beside our woodstove, and the little guy moved right into it, snoozing hard and snuffling in his dreams. I couldn't help but wonder if he was having nightmares of his abuse, so I spent most of those first days stroking his thin fur, whispering to his slumbering body that he was safe now, that no one would ever harm him again, that he could rest here.
He woke for a few minutes at a time, just long enough for short cuddle sessions and to lap up some chicken broth. He also made best friends with Heating Pad, who became his constant napping companion. I periodically stuck a finger between the two, just to make sure we weren't baking the pup.
It's been three weeks since we brought the baby home.
He’s doubled in size.
No more skeletal body, more closely resembling Gollum than a puppy, the little guy has grown healthy, strong, curious, persistent, and playful. His fur is growing back soft and shiny, his limp is gone, and his eyes are clear and bright.
Sometimes, I’m so amazed by his transition that I whisper to Brad, “We did that.”
We do what we can.
Our dear friend Kolin has helped by shooting photos and videos of the puppy. This footage will help share his story, and find the best home possible for this sweet little fellow.
Here’s the first vid, taken when the little guy was still in recovery mode:
And here’s the most recent footage, from April 3:
3.09.2011
The Lesson of McCarthy's Bar
McCarthy's Bar, one of my favorite books, is part travelogue and part journey of self-discovery.
Written by British television presenter Pete McCarthy, it chronicles the author's trip through Ireland en route to a Christian pilgrimage in Lough Derg, once thought to be the end of the world.
This book has enjoyed pride of place on my nightstand for nearly two years. Even before I cracked its spine, I knew I'd love it, so I preserved it, saving it for lean reading times--rare days when I had no interlopers from the library or fresh New Yorkers to keep me busy. In this way, McCarthy's Bar became a companion, a story I could count on returning to over and over.
Last night I began reading the last chapter, and in panic over finishing the book, I sought out more works by the author; his lyrical descriptions of Ireland have become my lullaby and I'm not ready to change the tune.
It was a blow, then, to learn that the author passed away in 2004. He wrote one other book, a sort of follow up to McCarthy's Bar, but succumbed to cancer shortly after that.
I know it's odd to so acutely feel the death someone I never met, but after taking such a long literary journey with the author, I can't help but mourn. His book is transitional, and as his love for a mythical Ireland grows into a real sense of belonging, the reader experiences that connection alongside him. After such a shift, I couldn't help but feel suspended -- what happens next? Sadly, there is no next.
This reminded me of one day shortly after Brad's motorcycle accident. He was still in the hospital, broken and in tremendous pain, his head injury causing him confusion and agitation in turns. His mother came to visit and encouraged me to leave for a while. She was trying to be nice, to give me an opportunity to take the dogs for a walk, take a shower and change into clean clothes. I thought I'd appreciate a break from my vigil, but 20 steps outside the hospital doors, I felt an urgent, desperate need to run back in and reclaim my post in the uncomfortable chair beside Brad's bed. Even though we're used to being apart, it felt all wrong to be away from him just then.
Somewhere in our few years together, his well-being had become so important to me that I couldn't separate his pain from my own feelings; such entanglement was strange, but not totally surprising.
In college I led trips for the outdoor rec program. For each group I took climbing, backpacking, or winter camping, I honed in on the weakest person--the one who didn't really want to be there--and tried to tailor the trip to his or her skill level. It was the wrong way to lead, and I consistently got that feedback from my co-instructors. "You need to consider the forest, not the trees."
It was good advice, considering that I've always connected too quickly, sought to relate when there may have been nothing to bond over. Maybe that explains why, in athletics, I prefer to be the fastest in the group, rather than the slowest. I'd rather help than be helped. Or maybe that's just the easy way out; maybe I'd rather coast than keep up.
Meanwhile, while I've been reading (and thinking about writing, and talking about writing, and threatening to write), a new troupe of poets have charged in and written, receiving grants, winning awards, and getting published in the process.
I now have a whole new collection of poems to pin to my inspiration board, a bunch of new names to move in beside the yellowing work of Doty and Collins and Simic and Yeats.
There's nothing to do but the work. No shortcut or easy way out. So the longer we put the work off, wait for the muse or just wait until we have more time, the more likely it is that the work just won't get done.
Pete McCarthy had plans. He mentioned them more than once McCarthy's Bar. In one passage, he decided to stop reading a book with just a few pages left, choosing to save the ending for later, when he thought he'd be bored and need the distraction. Later, though, there was no power, and he lay in the dark thinking about the unread pages and how we can't know the future.
Written by British television presenter Pete McCarthy, it chronicles the author's trip through Ireland en route to a Christian pilgrimage in Lough Derg, once thought to be the end of the world.
This book has enjoyed pride of place on my nightstand for nearly two years. Even before I cracked its spine, I knew I'd love it, so I preserved it, saving it for lean reading times--rare days when I had no interlopers from the library or fresh New Yorkers to keep me busy. In this way, McCarthy's Bar became a companion, a story I could count on returning to over and over.
Last night I began reading the last chapter, and in panic over finishing the book, I sought out more works by the author; his lyrical descriptions of Ireland have become my lullaby and I'm not ready to change the tune.
It was a blow, then, to learn that the author passed away in 2004. He wrote one other book, a sort of follow up to McCarthy's Bar, but succumbed to cancer shortly after that.
I know it's odd to so acutely feel the death someone I never met, but after taking such a long literary journey with the author, I can't help but mourn. His book is transitional, and as his love for a mythical Ireland grows into a real sense of belonging, the reader experiences that connection alongside him. After such a shift, I couldn't help but feel suspended -- what happens next? Sadly, there is no next.
This reminded me of one day shortly after Brad's motorcycle accident. He was still in the hospital, broken and in tremendous pain, his head injury causing him confusion and agitation in turns. His mother came to visit and encouraged me to leave for a while. She was trying to be nice, to give me an opportunity to take the dogs for a walk, take a shower and change into clean clothes. I thought I'd appreciate a break from my vigil, but 20 steps outside the hospital doors, I felt an urgent, desperate need to run back in and reclaim my post in the uncomfortable chair beside Brad's bed. Even though we're used to being apart, it felt all wrong to be away from him just then.
Somewhere in our few years together, his well-being had become so important to me that I couldn't separate his pain from my own feelings; such entanglement was strange, but not totally surprising.
In college I led trips for the outdoor rec program. For each group I took climbing, backpacking, or winter camping, I honed in on the weakest person--the one who didn't really want to be there--and tried to tailor the trip to his or her skill level. It was the wrong way to lead, and I consistently got that feedback from my co-instructors. "You need to consider the forest, not the trees."
It was good advice, considering that I've always connected too quickly, sought to relate when there may have been nothing to bond over. Maybe that explains why, in athletics, I prefer to be the fastest in the group, rather than the slowest. I'd rather help than be helped. Or maybe that's just the easy way out; maybe I'd rather coast than keep up.
Meanwhile, while I've been reading (and thinking about writing, and talking about writing, and threatening to write), a new troupe of poets have charged in and written, receiving grants, winning awards, and getting published in the process.
I now have a whole new collection of poems to pin to my inspiration board, a bunch of new names to move in beside the yellowing work of Doty and Collins and Simic and Yeats.
There's nothing to do but the work. No shortcut or easy way out. So the longer we put the work off, wait for the muse or just wait until we have more time, the more likely it is that the work just won't get done.
Pete McCarthy had plans. He mentioned them more than once McCarthy's Bar. In one passage, he decided to stop reading a book with just a few pages left, choosing to save the ending for later, when he thought he'd be bored and need the distraction. Later, though, there was no power, and he lay in the dark thinking about the unread pages and how we can't know the future.
1.25.2011
45 Words for Grace
I found it in my thirties,
Bridging acceptance and joy,
In the quiet place some call balance.
It came when I discovered
The beauty in longing,
And in a moment of stillness--
my pack asleep around me--
It crept in and love came crashing through.
Bridging acceptance and joy,
In the quiet place some call balance.
It came when I discovered
The beauty in longing,
And in a moment of stillness--
my pack asleep around me--
It crept in and love came crashing through.
1.19.2011
Certain Things
We heat our home with wood, so wintertime sees us spending most of our house-hours in the room with the wood stove.
A squat, broad thing with a glass front door, it looks like a little fire-bellied Buddha, spreading enlightenment in the form of warmth.
And we flock to it--after skiing or shoveling the driveway, after work, after showers when we're dripping and wrapped in towels and hopping from foot to foot. We soak in the heat and the light of it, warming our skin and our blood and our bones, and slowly, eventually, feeling human again.
There are certain things that always make me happy, that make me smile from the inside out; sitting by a fire in our stove is one such thing.
We all have them--these little sources of unconditional joy--but they're so different from one person to the next..my own husband would surely die of boredom in my own perfectly constructed Happyland. Although, I suppose he'd like the puppies.
Sitting here with a sleepy dog at my feet, the fire-bellied Buddha warm, the storm gathering and growing outside (the newspaper actually warned against "Thundersnow"), I'm grateful for everything around me, and:
String Lights
Vanilla Frosting
Scotland
Velvet
Fabric Bunting and Garlands
A squat, broad thing with a glass front door, it looks like a little fire-bellied Buddha, spreading enlightenment in the form of warmth.
And we flock to it--after skiing or shoveling the driveway, after work, after showers when we're dripping and wrapped in towels and hopping from foot to foot. We soak in the heat and the light of it, warming our skin and our blood and our bones, and slowly, eventually, feeling human again.
There are certain things that always make me happy, that make me smile from the inside out; sitting by a fire in our stove is one such thing.
We all have them--these little sources of unconditional joy--but they're so different from one person to the next..my own husband would surely die of boredom in my own perfectly constructed Happyland. Although, I suppose he'd like the puppies.
Sitting here with a sleepy dog at my feet, the fire-bellied Buddha warm, the storm gathering and growing outside (the newspaper actually warned against "Thundersnow"), I'm grateful for everything around me, and:
String Lights
Vanilla Frosting
Scotland
Velvet
Fabric Bunting and Garlands
1.08.2011
In the Name of Authenticity
All day, I've been thinking about authenticity. Rather than fitting into a role, I've been trying to let my freak flag fly lately -- loving what I love out loud and without apology, finding comfort in my own skin.
Then me friend sent me a link to a TED Talk -- the author of one of my favorite blogs, 1000 Awesome Things, telling his story and sharing the three As of Awesome: Attitude, Awareness, and Authenticity.
We all haves truths we seldom share--they're embarrassing, they don't fit the role were working so hard to manifest. Sometimes it gets exhausting, though, trying to live up to a hologram. Sometimes it's better to be authentic, even if it means that everyone will know #28.
1. I don't like sushi.
2. I love Myley Cyrus's "Party in the USA."
3. I prefer resort skiing to backcountry skiing.
4. I love my dogs more than I love most people.
5. Certain poems always make me happy.
6. Others always break my heart.
7. I love watching sports.
8. I also love playing sports.
9. I hate how sweaty I get when I work out.
10. I'm proud to be from Pittsburgh.
11. I prefer being at home to going out.
12. If I never go back to Yosemite, that's ok.
13. Most of the time I want to be at home in Pennsylvania.
14. Taking care of Arnie taught me how to take care of myself.
15. Passing the Therapy Dog test with Arnie was the proudest I've ever been.
16. I know I don't use my full potential most of the time.
17. I work every day to change that.
18. I prefer beer to wine.
19. I've wanted to lose weight for as long as I can remember.
20. I sometimes wonder if I should have gone to New York instead of Colorado.
21. I always crack up at silly physical comedy.
22. I can watch the same funny SNL skits 200 times and still laugh.
23. I can not bear to see people or animals in pain.
24. I don't understand the allure of watching violence in films.
25. I have no time for people who willingly bear witness to violence.
26. I'll never forgive Michael Vick
27. I don't think he deserved a second chance.
28. I'd far rather meet Andy Samberg than Barack Obama.
29. I know that last one makes me sound like a tool, but it's true.
30. I worry about my family.
31. I hate living so far away from them.
32. Sometimes I resent my husband's attachment to this area.
33. But I totally understand it.
34. I wish we had cable so I could watch football and hockey.
35. I fear that television would highlight the major differences b/w B and me.
35. I sometimes worry that our passions are too different.
36. But then I question what my passions really are, and can't always answer.
37. Someday, I want to be in charge of something.
38. The Park City scene annoys me.
39. But its mountain biking is still my favorite in the world.
40. Little makes me as giddy and happy as mountain biking.
41. First-cup-of-coffee is my favorite time of the day.
42. Arnie makes me feel happy all the time, without fail.
43. I sometimes worry that I won't be able to deal with his death.
44. I'm mortified to remember certain parts of my life.
45. I'm super proud of others.
46. I know I'm too selfish.
47. That'll do for now.
Then me friend sent me a link to a TED Talk -- the author of one of my favorite blogs, 1000 Awesome Things, telling his story and sharing the three As of Awesome: Attitude, Awareness, and Authenticity.
We all haves truths we seldom share--they're embarrassing, they don't fit the role were working so hard to manifest. Sometimes it gets exhausting, though, trying to live up to a hologram. Sometimes it's better to be authentic, even if it means that everyone will know #28.
1. I don't like sushi.
2. I love Myley Cyrus's "Party in the USA."
3. I prefer resort skiing to backcountry skiing.
4. I love my dogs more than I love most people.
5. Certain poems always make me happy.
6. Others always break my heart.
7. I love watching sports.
8. I also love playing sports.
9. I hate how sweaty I get when I work out.
10. I'm proud to be from Pittsburgh.
11. I prefer being at home to going out.
12. If I never go back to Yosemite, that's ok.
13. Most of the time I want to be at home in Pennsylvania.
14. Taking care of Arnie taught me how to take care of myself.
15. Passing the Therapy Dog test with Arnie was the proudest I've ever been.
16. I know I don't use my full potential most of the time.
17. I work every day to change that.
18. I prefer beer to wine.
19. I've wanted to lose weight for as long as I can remember.
20. I sometimes wonder if I should have gone to New York instead of Colorado.
21. I always crack up at silly physical comedy.
22. I can watch the same funny SNL skits 200 times and still laugh.
23. I can not bear to see people or animals in pain.
24. I don't understand the allure of watching violence in films.
25. I have no time for people who willingly bear witness to violence.
26. I'll never forgive Michael Vick
27. I don't think he deserved a second chance.
28. I'd far rather meet Andy Samberg than Barack Obama.
29. I know that last one makes me sound like a tool, but it's true.
30. I worry about my family.
31. I hate living so far away from them.
32. Sometimes I resent my husband's attachment to this area.
33. But I totally understand it.
34. I wish we had cable so I could watch football and hockey.
35. I fear that television would highlight the major differences b/w B and me.
35. I sometimes worry that our passions are too different.
36. But then I question what my passions really are, and can't always answer.
37. Someday, I want to be in charge of something.
38. The Park City scene annoys me.
39. But its mountain biking is still my favorite in the world.
40. Little makes me as giddy and happy as mountain biking.
41. First-cup-of-coffee is my favorite time of the day.
42. Arnie makes me feel happy all the time, without fail.
43. I sometimes worry that I won't be able to deal with his death.
44. I'm mortified to remember certain parts of my life.
45. I'm super proud of others.
46. I know I'm too selfish.
47. That'll do for now.
12.31.2010
The End and the Beginning
The call came and commenced an almost total overhaul. With so much happening at the end of 2010, it's easy to chalk the whole year up to something turbulent and tumultuous--not always bad, but unpredictable in the best of times.
That's not the case, though.
While the Year of the Tiger certainly brought trauma and drama in the form of a broken husband and his long recovery, it also brought a deeper calm to our pack--new roles to fill. I'm pleased to say we rose to each occasion; we thrived.
The year began with uncertainty and the feeling of treading water--reacting to life, not making things happen.
But then Brad got hurt, and suddenly life seemed too fragile to take for granted. I launched a concerted effort to fill my life with challenges and joy; after a few false starts, I'm proud to report that I ended the year with a compelling job, a strong body, a happy family, a healthy bank account, a solid partnership, and a balanced life.
It was no small effort, and there's no room for coasting as we slide into 2011. Still, though, maintaining isn't quite enough, so I've established a few goals for the coming 365:
Accompany Arnie on 22 therapy animal visits
Run two footraces
Save a big chunk of money
Travel to a new place with Brad
Take a trip with my family
Submit three pieces of writing for publication
It doesn't sound like much, but I'm trying to remember that what seems inevitable can become impossible as life delivers unexpected changes; and just as I hope to embrace those blows, I also hope to continue making things happen, taking ownership, and staying my course.
Stay tuned.
That's not the case, though.
While the Year of the Tiger certainly brought trauma and drama in the form of a broken husband and his long recovery, it also brought a deeper calm to our pack--new roles to fill. I'm pleased to say we rose to each occasion; we thrived.
The year began with uncertainty and the feeling of treading water--reacting to life, not making things happen.
But then Brad got hurt, and suddenly life seemed too fragile to take for granted. I launched a concerted effort to fill my life with challenges and joy; after a few false starts, I'm proud to report that I ended the year with a compelling job, a strong body, a happy family, a healthy bank account, a solid partnership, and a balanced life.
It was no small effort, and there's no room for coasting as we slide into 2011. Still, though, maintaining isn't quite enough, so I've established a few goals for the coming 365:
Accompany Arnie on 22 therapy animal visits
Run two footraces
Save a big chunk of money
Travel to a new place with Brad
Take a trip with my family
Submit three pieces of writing for publication
It doesn't sound like much, but I'm trying to remember that what seems inevitable can become impossible as life delivers unexpected changes; and just as I hope to embrace those blows, I also hope to continue making things happen, taking ownership, and staying my course.
Stay tuned.
11.03.2010
Tolle, Lege*
What's hard is that the world doesn't stop while you mourn a lost opportunity. Or wait for the phone to ring while you hold out hope.
But then you realize that it's not so bad, because you remember Auden's Funeral Blues:
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Because that, obviously, was a darker day. And like Auden, you, too, will face worse. And when you do, you hope to remember the words of that spitfire in sensible shoes, Eleanor Roosevelt: We gain strength, and courage, and confidence by each experience in which we really stop to look fear in the face... we must do that which we think we cannot.
We must do that which we think we cannot.
Until then, though, you will retreat to your favorite place in the world--your bed, with your husband and dogs cuddled in close, a stack of novels on your nightstand and the light soft.
*Take up and read.
But then you realize that it's not so bad, because you remember Auden's Funeral Blues:
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Because that, obviously, was a darker day. And like Auden, you, too, will face worse. And when you do, you hope to remember the words of that spitfire in sensible shoes, Eleanor Roosevelt: We gain strength, and courage, and confidence by each experience in which we really stop to look fear in the face... we must do that which we think we cannot.
We must do that which we think we cannot.
Until then, though, you will retreat to your favorite place in the world--your bed, with your husband and dogs cuddled in close, a stack of novels on your nightstand and the light soft.
*Take up and read.
10.24.2010
You Must Be at Least This Tall to Ride the Emotional Roller Coaster
Nanci Griffith sings a wonderful cover of Richard and Linda Thompson's "Wall of Death."
On the wall of death
All the world is far from me
On the wall of death
It's the nearest to being free
Let me ride on the wall of death one more time
You can waste your time on the other rides
But this is the nearest to being alive
I envy the even-keeled. I'd like to be able to weather bad news calmly--to hear it, accept it, and then get on with the business of the day. I'd have liked to do just that today, when Arnie and I failed our Therapy Dog evaluation. Don't misunderstand--Arnie performed beautifully for most of the test. The only hard part--the reason we failed--was when we had to approach and pass another dog WITHOUT REACTING.
Right.
Here's the thing: Arnie loves other dogs. LOVES THEM. All his life, other dogs have been his buddies, his playmates, his friends, his humpers, his humpees. My boy is a well-behaved beast until he spies another pup; then he completely loses his furry mind.
So, when we approached the other dog (who was completely disinterested in Arnie and me), Arnie ignored my "sit" and my "stay" and my "no," and told me in no uncertain terms (by sta-rain-ing on the end of his leash) that he wanted to say hello to the other animal.
So that was that. And I was sad. I opted to complete the test, even though I knew we wouldn't pass (neutrally meeting another dog is imperative to pass the therapy doggie test). Throughout the remaining steps (which Arnie performed effortlessly), I fought tears and worked hard to ensure that Arnie couldn't sense my sadness--he was having fun and I didn't want to stop his happy tail.
Later--after a good cry and a long talk with Arnie about how this isn't his fault, it's my fault, and I love him whether he ever becomes a therapy puppy or not--my phone rang.
It was the executive director of the therapy animal organization, calling to tell me that the other volunteers in the test room thought the evaluator was overly harsh with Arnie and me. They thought we handled the test well, and that Arnie would make a wonderful therapy animal.
Hmm.
Then she offered Arnie and I a free re-test next month.
Well.
So we have some work to do, my puppy and me. We have to visit many dog parks and crowded places, and we have to behave, even in the face of such distractions as baby Heelers (good for rolling), bigdumbLabs (good for humping), Jack Russels (good for chasing), and--the hardest test of all--other Golden Retrievers.
So, ok. It was a rough afternoon. But then it was a better afternoon. And now, Arnie and I are cuddled up against the rapidly cooling weather (just how we like it), grateful for another chance, and exhausted from the Wall of Death.
On the wall of death
All the world is far from me
On the wall of death
It's the nearest to being free
Let me ride on the wall of death one more time
You can waste your time on the other rides
But this is the nearest to being alive
I envy the even-keeled. I'd like to be able to weather bad news calmly--to hear it, accept it, and then get on with the business of the day. I'd have liked to do just that today, when Arnie and I failed our Therapy Dog evaluation. Don't misunderstand--Arnie performed beautifully for most of the test. The only hard part--the reason we failed--was when we had to approach and pass another dog WITHOUT REACTING.
Right.
Here's the thing: Arnie loves other dogs. LOVES THEM. All his life, other dogs have been his buddies, his playmates, his friends, his humpers, his humpees. My boy is a well-behaved beast until he spies another pup; then he completely loses his furry mind.
So, when we approached the other dog (who was completely disinterested in Arnie and me), Arnie ignored my "sit" and my "stay" and my "no," and told me in no uncertain terms (by sta-rain-ing on the end of his leash) that he wanted to say hello to the other animal.
So that was that. And I was sad. I opted to complete the test, even though I knew we wouldn't pass (neutrally meeting another dog is imperative to pass the therapy doggie test). Throughout the remaining steps (which Arnie performed effortlessly), I fought tears and worked hard to ensure that Arnie couldn't sense my sadness--he was having fun and I didn't want to stop his happy tail.
Later--after a good cry and a long talk with Arnie about how this isn't his fault, it's my fault, and I love him whether he ever becomes a therapy puppy or not--my phone rang.
It was the executive director of the therapy animal organization, calling to tell me that the other volunteers in the test room thought the evaluator was overly harsh with Arnie and me. They thought we handled the test well, and that Arnie would make a wonderful therapy animal.
Hmm.
Then she offered Arnie and I a free re-test next month.
Well.
So we have some work to do, my puppy and me. We have to visit many dog parks and crowded places, and we have to behave, even in the face of such distractions as baby Heelers (good for rolling), bigdumbLabs (good for humping), Jack Russels (good for chasing), and--the hardest test of all--other Golden Retrievers.
So, ok. It was a rough afternoon. But then it was a better afternoon. And now, Arnie and I are cuddled up against the rapidly cooling weather (just how we like it), grateful for another chance, and exhausted from the Wall of Death.
10.22.2010
We've gone monthly
It's a tough time over here. I'm struggling with motivation, with ideas. Sorry for the lack of posts--consider The Wasatch Report a monthly publication for now.
As I indicated in my last post, fall in Northern Utah offers little for wannabe hermits who long to shutter against the cold, tend the fire, work wool into scarves and hats, and turn inward. This year has been so warm that even the snakes haven't gone underground yet, which means that I am a frightful hiker, jumpy, shrieking at unsuspecting sticks and field mice.
Naturally, though, I'm choosing to blame the weather for a bigger issue--that of feeling purposeless. When I talk about this out loud, people tell me to get over it, that lots of others feel this way but simply press on, opting for fortitude over crumbling into a heap of emotions.
It's not all bad. It's not bad at all, actually. Even as I stare out the window and wonder how to get my psyche back, I don't lose sight of my good fortune and all the gifts in my life.
1. Brad's hind paw recovery is nearly complete, and he's stronger than ever.
2. My whole family is healthy and happy.
3. I just ran my 6th half-marathon.
4. Brad and I had a fun mountain biking season together.
5. I am taking and loving guitar lessons.
6. I've made a few new friends lately--fun, active, fit women.
7. I'm writing yoga articles for examiner.com (the page isn't up yet)--thanks to Alex for that great idea.
8. We're spending Thanksgiving with friends in Boulder.
9. I have a job that lets me write and occasionally work from home.
10. Arnie takes his therapy dog test this Sunday (all paws crossed).
Life is good.
As I indicated in my last post, fall in Northern Utah offers little for wannabe hermits who long to shutter against the cold, tend the fire, work wool into scarves and hats, and turn inward. This year has been so warm that even the snakes haven't gone underground yet, which means that I am a frightful hiker, jumpy, shrieking at unsuspecting sticks and field mice.
Naturally, though, I'm choosing to blame the weather for a bigger issue--that of feeling purposeless. When I talk about this out loud, people tell me to get over it, that lots of others feel this way but simply press on, opting for fortitude over crumbling into a heap of emotions.
It's not all bad. It's not bad at all, actually. Even as I stare out the window and wonder how to get my psyche back, I don't lose sight of my good fortune and all the gifts in my life.
1. Brad's hind paw recovery is nearly complete, and he's stronger than ever.
2. My whole family is healthy and happy.
3. I just ran my 6th half-marathon.
4. Brad and I had a fun mountain biking season together.
5. I am taking and loving guitar lessons.
6. I've made a few new friends lately--fun, active, fit women.
7. I'm writing yoga articles for examiner.com (the page isn't up yet)--thanks to Alex for that great idea.
8. We're spending Thanksgiving with friends in Boulder.
9. I have a job that lets me write and occasionally work from home.
10. Arnie takes his therapy dog test this Sunday (all paws crossed).
Life is good.
9.21.2010
Close Your Eyes and Think of Scotland
Since June, I've been urging fall along, willing it to arrive.
Wind events. Rain. Complex skies. Cool temperatures. Early nights.
We're robbed of true autumn in Utah. What we get is beautiful--the maples and oaks deepen the aspen gold into an ombre of foliage that smacks of the East Coast--but it's too still, too hot. The skies are glass-eye blue--there's no strife in it.
I want whipping wind and sideways rain. Mad dashes from the driveway to the house. Muddy-pawed puppies making for vacuuming marathons.
When I close my eyes, I see a wild shoreline--Lewis or the Hebridies. I feel rain on my face, strong wind at my back. I smell wet wool. There's salt in the air, and the pungent smoke of peat fires.
But what I'm longing for isn't the discomfort. I'm too soft for that. What I want is the shelter that comes after the suffering--the comfort of feeling warm after being cold, of drying off after getting soaked though with rain.
That's what I'm looking forward to.
Wind events. Rain. Complex skies. Cool temperatures. Early nights.
We're robbed of true autumn in Utah. What we get is beautiful--the maples and oaks deepen the aspen gold into an ombre of foliage that smacks of the East Coast--but it's too still, too hot. The skies are glass-eye blue--there's no strife in it.
I want whipping wind and sideways rain. Mad dashes from the driveway to the house. Muddy-pawed puppies making for vacuuming marathons.
When I close my eyes, I see a wild shoreline--Lewis or the Hebridies. I feel rain on my face, strong wind at my back. I smell wet wool. There's salt in the air, and the pungent smoke of peat fires.
But what I'm longing for isn't the discomfort. I'm too soft for that. What I want is the shelter that comes after the suffering--the comfort of feeling warm after being cold, of drying off after getting soaked though with rain.
That's what I'm looking forward to.
8.31.2010
I could promise to write more often...
...or practice my guitar everyday, or
bang on my djembe until the neighbors call the cops, or
finally make those thousand origami cranes I've been thinking about, or
really, like, really learn to knit, or
finish that kaleidoscope string quilt, or
better tend to my correspondence, or
whip up the Little Squares Scarf, or
stitch together the Schoolhouse Tunic.
But for now, I'm content to dwell in the physical world: running, biking, climbing, hiking, practicing yoga, jumping into cold lakes with the dogs, darting around empty schoolyards catching frisbees.
It's finally starting to feel like fall around here, and soon enough it'll be time to sit by the woodstove and work on subversive cross stitch projects.
But I'm avoiding a big work-related question right now, so it's easier to be outside, to sweat, to breathe hard, to get worked, and to be too tired at the end of the day to give it any thought. Too much time in my head is best avoided when important decisions are afoot.
So I'm sorry to have been such a lousy blogger lately. I'm just having trouble sitting still and facing my thoughts head on. Better to let them sneak up on me in the middle of a run, or halfway up a climb. Even though I still have to deal with them, I feel better equipped when I'm not meeting them at a desk.
I'll write more often as the weather cools and I turn more inward. I always do.
bang on my djembe until the neighbors call the cops, or
finally make those thousand origami cranes I've been thinking about, or
really, like, really learn to knit, or
finish that kaleidoscope string quilt, or
better tend to my correspondence, or
whip up the Little Squares Scarf, or
stitch together the Schoolhouse Tunic.
But for now, I'm content to dwell in the physical world: running, biking, climbing, hiking, practicing yoga, jumping into cold lakes with the dogs, darting around empty schoolyards catching frisbees.
It's finally starting to feel like fall around here, and soon enough it'll be time to sit by the woodstove and work on subversive cross stitch projects.
But I'm avoiding a big work-related question right now, so it's easier to be outside, to sweat, to breathe hard, to get worked, and to be too tired at the end of the day to give it any thought. Too much time in my head is best avoided when important decisions are afoot.
So I'm sorry to have been such a lousy blogger lately. I'm just having trouble sitting still and facing my thoughts head on. Better to let them sneak up on me in the middle of a run, or halfway up a climb. Even though I still have to deal with them, I feel better equipped when I'm not meeting them at a desk.
I'll write more often as the weather cools and I turn more inward. I always do.
7.21.2010
The Company of Animals
Today I stopped at 7-11 for petrol for the car and fuel for me. While the car was filling up, I went inside for a bag of Smartfood popcorn and some chocolate milk (my favorite "fast food" lunch). The man behind the counter was large, jovial, and wearing a hairnet over his bald head.
"3.51," he said, smiling broadly.
I handed him four ones, and as he took them, he reached into the penny dish (this one, like many in convenience stores, sponsored by Newport Cigarettes) and said, "Out of 4.01."
"Thank you," I said. "That's very kind."
"Thoughtful," he countered politely. "If I were kind, I'd reach into my own pocket."
Indeed, I thought. There's a difference.
The words we choose matter, but are they as powerful as our actions? Arnie can't actually talk, but I always know what he's thinking, what he needs. Meanwhile, some of the most loquacious people I know say nothing, just fill space with sounds and noises.
Brad and I just celebrated our wedding anniversary by climbing the South Ridge of Mount Superior, an exposed line that overlooks the spot where we got married 4 years ago.
The doing took considerable effort on my part, being a little out of shape and a lot more cautious that I used to be. I'm no fan of exposure, and even though the climbing is easy, it takes time to do it carefully, what with the many loose rocks disguising themselves as hand or foot holds.
I was a little gripped and grumpy when we started, foreseeing all the things that could go wrong. Ever the champion of the positive, Brad usually responds to my fatalistic mutterings by pointing out that I'm being illogical, that my concerns are unfounded. It's a natural response for him; he's a practical man. It's not always a helpful response for me, though, being a mostly impractical woman.
Brad struck supportive-husband gold that night, though. While shuffling across a skinny ledge, he found a clump of goat fur and promptly placed it on his head. As I edged across to his stance, I was freaked out and about to complain, but when I looked up and saw Goatman, all I could do was laugh and laugh and laugh.
"Baaaaa." He commented.
And in the company of animals, that's all that needs to be said.
"3.51," he said, smiling broadly.
I handed him four ones, and as he took them, he reached into the penny dish (this one, like many in convenience stores, sponsored by Newport Cigarettes) and said, "Out of 4.01."
"Thank you," I said. "That's very kind."
"Thoughtful," he countered politely. "If I were kind, I'd reach into my own pocket."
Indeed, I thought. There's a difference.
The words we choose matter, but are they as powerful as our actions? Arnie can't actually talk, but I always know what he's thinking, what he needs. Meanwhile, some of the most loquacious people I know say nothing, just fill space with sounds and noises.
Brad and I just celebrated our wedding anniversary by climbing the South Ridge of Mount Superior, an exposed line that overlooks the spot where we got married 4 years ago.
The doing took considerable effort on my part, being a little out of shape and a lot more cautious that I used to be. I'm no fan of exposure, and even though the climbing is easy, it takes time to do it carefully, what with the many loose rocks disguising themselves as hand or foot holds.
I was a little gripped and grumpy when we started, foreseeing all the things that could go wrong. Ever the champion of the positive, Brad usually responds to my fatalistic mutterings by pointing out that I'm being illogical, that my concerns are unfounded. It's a natural response for him; he's a practical man. It's not always a helpful response for me, though, being a mostly impractical woman.
Brad struck supportive-husband gold that night, though. While shuffling across a skinny ledge, he found a clump of goat fur and promptly placed it on his head. As I edged across to his stance, I was freaked out and about to complain, but when I looked up and saw Goatman, all I could do was laugh and laugh and laugh.
"Baaaaa." He commented.
And in the company of animals, that's all that needs to be said.
7.13.2010
Coming Down
Today was a yoga day--morning practice followed by discussion and study until mid-afternoon.
It was an excellent class, hard and sweaty--it's July in Utah after all--and the brainwork was engaging, funny, enjoyable.
Still, though, I feel restless now, agitated.
I had a fine day--after yoga school I took the dogs to the lake for an hour--they swam and fetched, I waded and threw. We were the only ones there (that never happens); I felt blessed--actually blessed--to have the clean, cold water to ourselves.
But there it is, the feeling that I've left something unfinished...
But maybe that's just bad programming....We're taught to work hard, taught that work is hard. We're told to put our heads down and plow forward, to not question what we're trading for a paycheck (time, health, youth, glow, passion, humor, love, spirit).
So I guess I feel guilty about not hating my work--guilty that I don't resent how I'm spending my time.
It's absurd. There is absolutely nothing wrong (again, I am so blessed), so I'm concocting an issue to fill the void.
It reminds me of one of my favorite poems, by William Napier:
Cosmologies
The last log on the fire
Sends a momentary galaxy
Spiraling into the night.
Of course! Before all where or when,
Hunkered around that singularity,
(nothing but eternity's harmonica)
You had to stir the coals.
Light, delight...at least relief.
If we meet at all it's in these stars,
My awe and ignorance beneath a desert sky,
Your omniscience precluding mystery.
Let us talk of need, of who and what
We've made to fill the void.
Ok, enough.
As I've been typing and thinking, I've been listening to this mantra/song, which has helped me feel more relaxed.
I have to take a step away from all this and realize something: I took a risk in doing all this. I offered a scenario to the universe, and the universe said, "Ok, give it a try." So just as we have to let go when our offerings are turned away or rejected, so do we have to let go when they are accepted.
Attachment on either side of an experience is still attachment...let it go.
It was an excellent class, hard and sweaty--it's July in Utah after all--and the brainwork was engaging, funny, enjoyable.
Still, though, I feel restless now, agitated.
I had a fine day--after yoga school I took the dogs to the lake for an hour--they swam and fetched, I waded and threw. We were the only ones there (that never happens); I felt blessed--actually blessed--to have the clean, cold water to ourselves.
But there it is, the feeling that I've left something unfinished...
But maybe that's just bad programming....We're taught to work hard, taught that work is hard. We're told to put our heads down and plow forward, to not question what we're trading for a paycheck (time, health, youth, glow, passion, humor, love, spirit).
So I guess I feel guilty about not hating my work--guilty that I don't resent how I'm spending my time.
It's absurd. There is absolutely nothing wrong (again, I am so blessed), so I'm concocting an issue to fill the void.
It reminds me of one of my favorite poems, by William Napier:
Cosmologies
The last log on the fire
Sends a momentary galaxy
Spiraling into the night.
Of course! Before all where or when,
Hunkered around that singularity,
(nothing but eternity's harmonica)
You had to stir the coals.
Light, delight...at least relief.
If we meet at all it's in these stars,
My awe and ignorance beneath a desert sky,
Your omniscience precluding mystery.
Let us talk of need, of who and what
We've made to fill the void.
Ok, enough.
As I've been typing and thinking, I've been listening to this mantra/song, which has helped me feel more relaxed.
I have to take a step away from all this and realize something: I took a risk in doing all this. I offered a scenario to the universe, and the universe said, "Ok, give it a try." So just as we have to let go when our offerings are turned away or rejected, so do we have to let go when they are accepted.
Attachment on either side of an experience is still attachment...let it go.
7.01.2010
The progression of things.
Friday:
Red Dog wakes me up by biting my hair.
Coffee.
Feed the dogs, give Red his pills.
Run long at Round Valley with the dogs.
Take cookies to a friend who bettered my bike brakes.
Write.
Eat scrambled eggs with cheddar for lunch, consider swearing off wheat.
Write, but mostly surf the Internet.
Eat toast. Think again about cutting wheat from diet.
Study yoga books, think about who I'd like to mentor with for credit.
Head to yoga class; Kim is teaching.
Think about Kim's discussion of Ishvarapranidhana, the 5th niyama, that of surrender, of accepting what comes.
Wonder how to reconcile Ishvarapranidhana with one's athletic goals.
Saturday:
Red Dog wakes me up by biting my hair.
Coffee.
Feed the dogs, give Red his pills.
Road run while listening to Sean Kingston on Pandora...my favorite new running station.
Take the dogs to the park for a romp.
Eat yogurt and fruit while thinking again about giving up wheat.
Audit an Intro to Yoga class.
Manicure (I love this $15 indulgence) in Ballet Shoes pink.
Read some yoga texts.
Take the dogs to the lake for an evening swim.
Avoid meth addicts with scary looking dogs.
Eat Chinese food while lessening the leaning tower of unread magazines.
Watch Cashback (awesome) while researching single track for tomorrow's ride.
Feel happy about biking again.
Red Dog wakes me up by biting my hair.
Coffee.
Feed the dogs, give Red his pills.
Run long at Round Valley with the dogs.
Take cookies to a friend who bettered my bike brakes.
Write.
Eat scrambled eggs with cheddar for lunch, consider swearing off wheat.
Write, but mostly surf the Internet.
Eat toast. Think again about cutting wheat from diet.
Study yoga books, think about who I'd like to mentor with for credit.
Head to yoga class; Kim is teaching.
Think about Kim's discussion of Ishvarapranidhana, the 5th niyama, that of surrender, of accepting what comes.
Wonder how to reconcile Ishvarapranidhana with one's athletic goals.
Saturday:
Red Dog wakes me up by biting my hair.
Coffee.
Feed the dogs, give Red his pills.
Road run while listening to Sean Kingston on Pandora...my favorite new running station.
Take the dogs to the park for a romp.
Eat yogurt and fruit while thinking again about giving up wheat.
Audit an Intro to Yoga class.
Manicure (I love this $15 indulgence) in Ballet Shoes pink.
Read some yoga texts.
Take the dogs to the lake for an evening swim.
Avoid meth addicts with scary looking dogs.
Eat Chinese food while lessening the leaning tower of unread magazines.
Watch Cashback (awesome) while researching single track for tomorrow's ride.
Feel happy about biking again.
6.23.2010
A Kick in the Asana
Groove Pants and a passable adho mukha svanasana (downward-facing dog) do not a yogini make. Well, not necessarily.
Here in the wild West, we often think of yoga as a series of asanas (poses) with a few minutes of pranayama breathing tacked on at the beginning and end of class.
But according to Patanjali, asanas are of tertiary importance. His Yoga Sutras suggest that yamas (five abstentions) and niyamas (five restraints) are the first two steps toward yoga. The five yamas are ahimsa, satya, asteya, brahmacharya, and aparigraha. The five niyamas are shaucha, santosha, tapas, svadhyaya, and Ishvarapranidhana.
At this early point in my yogic education, I've only studied the first two yamas: ahimsa (non-violence) and satya (truthfulness). They're so big, though, with such reach, that as soon as I started looking at them and thinking about how they related to me, I became so overwhelmed that my body shut down.
It was Tuesday, and I was in the studio with my fellow teachers-in-training. We were talking about ahimsa as it related to us, and I realized how infrequently I practice non-violence to myself. Most of the time, I dislike my body, am disappointed in my performance, frustrated at my skill level, and am ashamed of myself as a result.
So while I'm not especially violent toward others or with my speech (not that I'm perfect on those counts either), I doubt Patanjali would pass me on an "Are You Ready To Yoga?" test. So as we moved on to satya, I was faced with a bit more truth than I could handle.
Rather than sit with it, though, be with it and face it, my body decided to protect me from too much truth at once, and at that point, right there in the studio surrounded by people, my neck spasmed, and I spent the rest of that day and the following 36 hours in a cycle of pain, spasm, nausea, vomiting, and unconsciousness.
The logical part of me (it's small but it is there) tells me that the injury (two facets between c4 and c5 were stuck closed) and resultant spasm came from too much sitting on the floor of the studio or at my computer with my head in a compromised position. But the rest of me (flighty, intuitive, feeling-rather-than-logic-based) believes that my injury came when I needed a break. I'd seen or heard too much, just couldn't take in any more, and my body closed itself off for a couple days to regroup and recover.
Our bodies know so much, and still we ignore and discredit them.
I don't have any conclusions or final points to tie this post up neatly. The past week has been incredibly educational and humbling, and even though I'd love to wrap it up and move on, I have a feeling this theme will continue for posts to come.
Here in the wild West, we often think of yoga as a series of asanas (poses) with a few minutes of pranayama breathing tacked on at the beginning and end of class.
But according to Patanjali, asanas are of tertiary importance. His Yoga Sutras suggest that yamas (five abstentions) and niyamas (five restraints) are the first two steps toward yoga. The five yamas are ahimsa, satya, asteya, brahmacharya, and aparigraha. The five niyamas are shaucha, santosha, tapas, svadhyaya, and Ishvarapranidhana.
At this early point in my yogic education, I've only studied the first two yamas: ahimsa (non-violence) and satya (truthfulness). They're so big, though, with such reach, that as soon as I started looking at them and thinking about how they related to me, I became so overwhelmed that my body shut down.
It was Tuesday, and I was in the studio with my fellow teachers-in-training. We were talking about ahimsa as it related to us, and I realized how infrequently I practice non-violence to myself. Most of the time, I dislike my body, am disappointed in my performance, frustrated at my skill level, and am ashamed of myself as a result.
So while I'm not especially violent toward others or with my speech (not that I'm perfect on those counts either), I doubt Patanjali would pass me on an "Are You Ready To Yoga?" test. So as we moved on to satya, I was faced with a bit more truth than I could handle.
Rather than sit with it, though, be with it and face it, my body decided to protect me from too much truth at once, and at that point, right there in the studio surrounded by people, my neck spasmed, and I spent the rest of that day and the following 36 hours in a cycle of pain, spasm, nausea, vomiting, and unconsciousness.
The logical part of me (it's small but it is there) tells me that the injury (two facets between c4 and c5 were stuck closed) and resultant spasm came from too much sitting on the floor of the studio or at my computer with my head in a compromised position. But the rest of me (flighty, intuitive, feeling-rather-than-logic-based) believes that my injury came when I needed a break. I'd seen or heard too much, just couldn't take in any more, and my body closed itself off for a couple days to regroup and recover.
Our bodies know so much, and still we ignore and discredit them.
I don't have any conclusions or final points to tie this post up neatly. The past week has been incredibly educational and humbling, and even though I'd love to wrap it up and move on, I have a feeling this theme will continue for posts to come.
6.16.2010
They Said it Best
So far, the emergent theme of yoga school is this: you're perfect.
The training is an integrated approach to Hatha yoga (physical practice, asanas), comprising elements of Ashtanga, Anusara, Bikram, Kundalini, etc. It's broad, it's open, it's inclusive, it's accepting.
That's not to say it's a free-for-all where anything goes. For example, there are safe ways and horrifying ways to move into upward facing dog (urdhva mukha svanasana), and if you take a horrifying option (crane your neck up to the ceiling, sinking into your shoulders and compressing your lower spine), you'll probably get hurt.
But to offer alternatives without authenticity is pointless...it will get everyone nowhere. It's important, I think, to illustrate, teach, and speak with equal parts compassion and knowledge--to recognize why people might be wrenching down into a heart-opener rather than letting their solar plexus move forward--maybe there's darkness there, maybe they're not ready to deal with what they've been hiding in that space. Lots of poses--even breathing exercises--take courage. You can't force courage--it has to be nurtured.
But this isn't news.
Plenty of wiser people than I have been talking about this stuff for years. Here are two exmples:
An organic structure is aligned with who we are and what we have to say. It is not disconnected from ourselves. If a form isn't organic, I think a great struggle ensues--the writer tries to stuff her being into a costume that doesn't fit.
--Natalie Goldberg
Men ask the way to Cold Mountain
Cold Mountain: there's no through trail.
In summer, ice doesn't melt
The rising sun blurs in swirling fog.
How did I make it?
My heart's not the same as yours.
If your heart was like mine,
You'd get it and be right here.
--Gary Snyder
The training is an integrated approach to Hatha yoga (physical practice, asanas), comprising elements of Ashtanga, Anusara, Bikram, Kundalini, etc. It's broad, it's open, it's inclusive, it's accepting.
That's not to say it's a free-for-all where anything goes. For example, there are safe ways and horrifying ways to move into upward facing dog (urdhva mukha svanasana), and if you take a horrifying option (crane your neck up to the ceiling, sinking into your shoulders and compressing your lower spine), you'll probably get hurt.
But to offer alternatives without authenticity is pointless...it will get everyone nowhere. It's important, I think, to illustrate, teach, and speak with equal parts compassion and knowledge--to recognize why people might be wrenching down into a heart-opener rather than letting their solar plexus move forward--maybe there's darkness there, maybe they're not ready to deal with what they've been hiding in that space. Lots of poses--even breathing exercises--take courage. You can't force courage--it has to be nurtured.
But this isn't news.
Plenty of wiser people than I have been talking about this stuff for years. Here are two exmples:
An organic structure is aligned with who we are and what we have to say. It is not disconnected from ourselves. If a form isn't organic, I think a great struggle ensues--the writer tries to stuff her being into a costume that doesn't fit.
--Natalie Goldberg
Men ask the way to Cold Mountain
Cold Mountain: there's no through trail.
In summer, ice doesn't melt
The rising sun blurs in swirling fog.
How did I make it?
My heart's not the same as yours.
If your heart was like mine,
You'd get it and be right here.
--Gary Snyder
6.15.2010
Just When You Thought This Blog Couldn't Get Any More Selfish...
My Mom decided that because it's been over a month since my last post, I can no longer claim this as a blog; The Wasatch Report has been demoted to a BLAH.
Here's where I've been:
Brad's injury shook something loose in me, and after ensuring his well-being (he's making a fantastic recovery), I checked in with my own, and found it lacking. So, I quit my job and signed up for a yoga teacher training certification.
I'm serious.
And I'm thrilled.
I also returned to PR, which I'm just loving. I'm working part-time for a boutique agency and really digging it.
And I started playing djembe again, taking lessons and accompanying a weekly African dance class.
All this good stuff in my life--good people, activities that make me smile, a supportive husband who doesn't bat an eye when I tell him I'm quitting my job to become a yoga teacher.
I'm so fortunate.
So that's where I've been, and that's why it's been kind of hard to sit down and write. There's just so much excitement and change--I'm still figuring out how to make sense of it all, still realizing that it's all happening....
As I sit in these teacher training classes, though, my mind whirls with quotes and observations I want to share. And I will, because, you see, I have to. I need to keep a journal throughout this certification process, and I hope you'll forgive me if this BLAH becomes that journal--a place for me to jot my feelings about what I'm learning, what I hear, what resonates, what I hope to avoid in my own teaching.
I mean, I say I hope you'll forgive me, but I know I've likely lost all readers by now. Except one (hi, Mom).
And obviously I can't share anything proprietary to the course work or studio.
And, of course, I'll still post photos of Arnie as needed.
Here's what I loved best about today's class:
We spent some time talking about how it's not the yoga teacher's job to impart some huge philosophical or spiritual ideology to students. The yoga teacher is simply there to remind students to breathe, to be present in their bodies, to breathe, to be present in their bodies....
And as I thought about that, I realized that the most transformational classes I've ever taken have been less "airy fairy" and more "stay in your body, stay on your mat." In fact, for the past few months, I've been setting an intention before every class to simply stay on my mat. Stay on the mat. Don't let the mind stray, don't let the eyes wander to the girl in the cool yoga top who's purse costs more than your car--nothing, nothing, nothing good can come of that. So I've been challenging myself to STAY ON THE MAT. And it's been awesome.
The other concept I've been into lately (in my yoga practice and off the mat, too) is the idea that wherever I am is ok. Whether I bend so far forward that my palms are flat to the floor, or just lean over enough to graze my kneecaps with my fingertips, I'm in a perfect pose. There is no right, no wrong, no better or worse. It's all yoga, and it's all ok, all perfect. The element that interests me there is that the concept of "perfect" is fluid, because as my postures change and develop and my "edge" deepens or backs off from day to day, my "perfect" pose changes, too.
Fluidity. Acceptance.
Those are the words for the day.
Here's where I've been:
Brad's injury shook something loose in me, and after ensuring his well-being (he's making a fantastic recovery), I checked in with my own, and found it lacking. So, I quit my job and signed up for a yoga teacher training certification.
I'm serious.
And I'm thrilled.
I also returned to PR, which I'm just loving. I'm working part-time for a boutique agency and really digging it.
And I started playing djembe again, taking lessons and accompanying a weekly African dance class.
All this good stuff in my life--good people, activities that make me smile, a supportive husband who doesn't bat an eye when I tell him I'm quitting my job to become a yoga teacher.
I'm so fortunate.
So that's where I've been, and that's why it's been kind of hard to sit down and write. There's just so much excitement and change--I'm still figuring out how to make sense of it all, still realizing that it's all happening....
As I sit in these teacher training classes, though, my mind whirls with quotes and observations I want to share. And I will, because, you see, I have to. I need to keep a journal throughout this certification process, and I hope you'll forgive me if this BLAH becomes that journal--a place for me to jot my feelings about what I'm learning, what I hear, what resonates, what I hope to avoid in my own teaching.
I mean, I say I hope you'll forgive me, but I know I've likely lost all readers by now. Except one (hi, Mom).
And obviously I can't share anything proprietary to the course work or studio.
And, of course, I'll still post photos of Arnie as needed.
Here's what I loved best about today's class:
We spent some time talking about how it's not the yoga teacher's job to impart some huge philosophical or spiritual ideology to students. The yoga teacher is simply there to remind students to breathe, to be present in their bodies, to breathe, to be present in their bodies....
And as I thought about that, I realized that the most transformational classes I've ever taken have been less "airy fairy" and more "stay in your body, stay on your mat." In fact, for the past few months, I've been setting an intention before every class to simply stay on my mat. Stay on the mat. Don't let the mind stray, don't let the eyes wander to the girl in the cool yoga top who's purse costs more than your car--nothing, nothing, nothing good can come of that. So I've been challenging myself to STAY ON THE MAT. And it's been awesome.
The other concept I've been into lately (in my yoga practice and off the mat, too) is the idea that wherever I am is ok. Whether I bend so far forward that my palms are flat to the floor, or just lean over enough to graze my kneecaps with my fingertips, I'm in a perfect pose. There is no right, no wrong, no better or worse. It's all yoga, and it's all ok, all perfect. The element that interests me there is that the concept of "perfect" is fluid, because as my postures change and develop and my "edge" deepens or backs off from day to day, my "perfect" pose changes, too.
Fluidity. Acceptance.
Those are the words for the day.
4.30.2010
Oy to the Vey
Sometimes we accidentally prepare ourselves for what’s to come. Whether by chance or intuition, we provide ourselves with and squirrel away the tools we’ll need to handle what the universe is about to rain down.
Remember all that talk about gratitude? My resolution to make thankfulness a part of every single day? About three weeks ago, my resolve was tested when Brad was involved in a motorcycle accident.
He crashed during a desert race, breaking his femur in five places and sustaining a serious concussion (not to be confused with a silly concussion).
Like any marriage, mine has high and low points. What is harmonious one moment can be a battle the next. But when I heard, shortly after the start of the race, that Brad had fallen and was injured, there was suddenly nothing in the world but him, nothing as imperative as his being ok.
As I ran to find him, I switched to autopilot, dodging kids and dogs and motorcycles without seeing them. As Brad came into focus, I felt like I was watching a film.
He was in a C-collar, his face caked with blood and dirt, grimacing from pain. It was gruesome and frightening, unfamiliar. Some skilled medics, who were racing alongside Brad, saw his wreck and acted quickly, pulling his leg into traction, loading him onto a spectator’s 4-wheeler, and getting him to a waiting ambulance. The transition from 4-wheeler to backboard and then ambulance was jerky and excruciating, and throughout the ordeal, Brad slipped in and out of consciousness.
Later, after a 40-mile ambulance ride over bumpy, curvy roads, I held Brad’s hand as an ER doc in a small-town hospital quietly told us about the femur breaks, the concussion. He was so calm it barely felt strange to hear him say that a helicopter was on its way, and that Brad needed to get into surgery within the next couple hours.
Delirious from stress, pain, and trauma, his voice hoarse with the effort of speaking, Brad then told me that his femur was broken, he had a concussion, and that he had to take a helicopter to another hospital, where he’d have surgery.
“Ok, honey,” I responded. “Thanks for keeping me updated.”
After the heli-crew loaded Brad onto the ship (see? I’m savvy with the vernacular), I jumped into the car and high-tailed it North, toward the fancy new hospital where a surgeon was awaiting Brad’s arrival. The 75-minute drive was both painfully slow and over in a heartbeat, as I alternated between wanting the whole ordeal to be behind us and dreading what was to come.
Along the way, friends and family called, having heard the news of Brad’s accident via the mysterious viral network through which bad news spreads. About 10 miles from the hospital, I got word that Brad was heading into surgery within the next 20 minutes. I suddenly felt an overwhelming need to see him before surgery, to make sure he wasn’t too scared, to tell him—and reassure myself—that everything would be ok.
I dashed into the ER just as the surgeon finished explaining the procedure to an out-of-it (but trying hard to pay attention) Brad. Before they took him to surgery, I had about five minutes to hold Brad’s hand while he told me that he felt like he was in good hands because his surgeon was a rock climber (she says wryly).
In the three weeks since that day, Brad experienced debilitating nausea, anxiety, and pain. There was sleeplessness, fear, confusion, frustration. The head injury remained mysterious and scary, and I was humbled and thankful for every calm, coherent moment Brad had.
As the effects of the concussion waned, though, things began to improve. One day, Brad woke up feeling good. His leg still ached, but his head was clear for the first time since the accident. We began to talk about how the accident exposed what we’d been taking for granted—our healthy bodies, our support of each other, our freedom to play and go and have fun whenever we wanted.
I looked at him that day and for a moment couldn’t speak or move—I never wanted to lose him. I never wanted him to feel pain or sadness.
This morning I learned that a woman in the Crossfit community died. Melanoma. I didn’t know her, but less than a year ago Brad and I watched her compete in the Crossfit games (her outrageous tattoos and rock star style made her Brad’s favorite contender). From dead-lifting over 300 pounds to dead in a year—life is so fragile.
We learn from crises. We transform pain and fear into strength and understanding. We move on with richer, deeper perspectives. Three weeks after Brad’s wreck, I’m learning to let gratitude guide me, enlighten me, choose my words when I’m too shocked or weary to come up with my own.
With this new teacher comes new lessons, new plans. I’ll tell you about them soon. In the meantime, thank you for reading. I’m grateful for you.
Remember all that talk about gratitude? My resolution to make thankfulness a part of every single day? About three weeks ago, my resolve was tested when Brad was involved in a motorcycle accident.
He crashed during a desert race, breaking his femur in five places and sustaining a serious concussion (not to be confused with a silly concussion).
Like any marriage, mine has high and low points. What is harmonious one moment can be a battle the next. But when I heard, shortly after the start of the race, that Brad had fallen and was injured, there was suddenly nothing in the world but him, nothing as imperative as his being ok.
As I ran to find him, I switched to autopilot, dodging kids and dogs and motorcycles without seeing them. As Brad came into focus, I felt like I was watching a film.
He was in a C-collar, his face caked with blood and dirt, grimacing from pain. It was gruesome and frightening, unfamiliar. Some skilled medics, who were racing alongside Brad, saw his wreck and acted quickly, pulling his leg into traction, loading him onto a spectator’s 4-wheeler, and getting him to a waiting ambulance. The transition from 4-wheeler to backboard and then ambulance was jerky and excruciating, and throughout the ordeal, Brad slipped in and out of consciousness.
Later, after a 40-mile ambulance ride over bumpy, curvy roads, I held Brad’s hand as an ER doc in a small-town hospital quietly told us about the femur breaks, the concussion. He was so calm it barely felt strange to hear him say that a helicopter was on its way, and that Brad needed to get into surgery within the next couple hours.
Delirious from stress, pain, and trauma, his voice hoarse with the effort of speaking, Brad then told me that his femur was broken, he had a concussion, and that he had to take a helicopter to another hospital, where he’d have surgery.
“Ok, honey,” I responded. “Thanks for keeping me updated.”
After the heli-crew loaded Brad onto the ship (see? I’m savvy with the vernacular), I jumped into the car and high-tailed it North, toward the fancy new hospital where a surgeon was awaiting Brad’s arrival. The 75-minute drive was both painfully slow and over in a heartbeat, as I alternated between wanting the whole ordeal to be behind us and dreading what was to come.
Along the way, friends and family called, having heard the news of Brad’s accident via the mysterious viral network through which bad news spreads. About 10 miles from the hospital, I got word that Brad was heading into surgery within the next 20 minutes. I suddenly felt an overwhelming need to see him before surgery, to make sure he wasn’t too scared, to tell him—and reassure myself—that everything would be ok.
I dashed into the ER just as the surgeon finished explaining the procedure to an out-of-it (but trying hard to pay attention) Brad. Before they took him to surgery, I had about five minutes to hold Brad’s hand while he told me that he felt like he was in good hands because his surgeon was a rock climber (she says wryly).
In the three weeks since that day, Brad experienced debilitating nausea, anxiety, and pain. There was sleeplessness, fear, confusion, frustration. The head injury remained mysterious and scary, and I was humbled and thankful for every calm, coherent moment Brad had.
As the effects of the concussion waned, though, things began to improve. One day, Brad woke up feeling good. His leg still ached, but his head was clear for the first time since the accident. We began to talk about how the accident exposed what we’d been taking for granted—our healthy bodies, our support of each other, our freedom to play and go and have fun whenever we wanted.
I looked at him that day and for a moment couldn’t speak or move—I never wanted to lose him. I never wanted him to feel pain or sadness.
This morning I learned that a woman in the Crossfit community died. Melanoma. I didn’t know her, but less than a year ago Brad and I watched her compete in the Crossfit games (her outrageous tattoos and rock star style made her Brad’s favorite contender). From dead-lifting over 300 pounds to dead in a year—life is so fragile.
We learn from crises. We transform pain and fear into strength and understanding. We move on with richer, deeper perspectives. Three weeks after Brad’s wreck, I’m learning to let gratitude guide me, enlighten me, choose my words when I’m too shocked or weary to come up with my own.
With this new teacher comes new lessons, new plans. I’ll tell you about them soon. In the meantime, thank you for reading. I’m grateful for you.
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