Project Up

ILLUMINATION

2011-11-13T11:08:00.000-08:00

"If you always put limits on everything you do, physical or anything else, it will spread into your work and into your life. There are no limits. There are only plateaus, and you must not stay there, you must go beyond them."
- Bruce Lee

Sometimes, in the course of life, we arrive at a comfortable plane. It happens without fanfare, without a trumpeting of celebration. It happens once we’ve climbed a difficult set of circumstances and then stand in both awe and admiration of what we have accomplished. For some, this plateau moment is so rewarding, so unexpected, it serves as some sort of deliverance.

Plateaus, in this sense, are deceptive. There is so much relief in reaching a goal, and so much self-congratulatory joy, that one often lingers longer than one should in this moment. Stay too long, and you risk staying forever. Get too comfortable, and you risk slipping into self-limitation.

But it won’t feel like limitation. It will feel like arriving, competence, it will even feel like skill. Therein lies the deception, the trickery. I’ve been thinking about this concept of plateaus mostly because mine were so unexpected, they felt like relief. So I grew comfortable in my own competence, thus limiting future opportunities for growth, challenge, and a higher resting place with a better view.

Since the Lucky Bucket Run in May, I mastered my 5k monkey mind. I learned the first kilometer is really a negotiation with myself as I ask helpful things like, “Why am I doing this?” and “Why did I eat that pizza yesterday?” The first kilometer is an exercise in mental mastery of the body because the body, by its own intuitive, cellular life force, resists that which is difficult, arduous.

(Photo: A disturbing find on the trail - a skeleton and tail)

The second kilometer is about surrender, when the body begins to understand that the mind is resolute. Body breathes. Body moves. Muscles once lamenting their plight begin to hum with opportunity. Feet adjust to the confines of their shoes, to the pounding against the ground beneath. And the heart finds the beat, the rhythm that anchors the orchestration of physical harmony.

It’s in the third and fourth kilometers that I find beauty. Mind clears, and I begin to look at the world around me with generous eyes. Sceneries seem to embolden their colors. The sound of my breathing, however labored, encourages me to continue. I find great peace in this place upon this plateau of will. That fifth length, the last of my run, is when all comes full circle and my beginning questions return. It feels like closure. It feels normal and complete.

So when my feet come to a stop, and my chest expands with a great breath of satisfaction, I celebrate. I marvel my body as a miracle, as a machine. Then I shamble to my car and drive home, self-satisfied and sure that I have done a good thing.

(Photo: Not everyone gets to compete with bicycles and horses for running and walking space)

But that’s it. The 5k is the same each time – only the weather changes. Sure, I become more efficient in my timing. I even feel a sense that, yes, I really am a runner. And this is where I’ve been stuck for four months, on a plateau of accomplishment and confidence. I’ve been comfortable, so much so, I felt as if I could skip a day or even week without suffering a setback.

(Photo: Light is a lively thing, with personality and motive)

Then one day I woke up and realized that it had been two months since I had set my feet to the path. This revelation startled me, mostly because time passes so quickly and I had not counted the sunsets and sunrises. I had not noticed the rewarding soreness in my muscles – that feeling I was going beyond myself – had faded within a brownie’s bite of flaccidity.

So Saturday, I met up with a Bucketeer and we decided to walk the MoPac trail. We wanted one last long walk before winter, before we’re forced to treadmills and tracks indoors by the unrelenting Nebraska chills and winds slice through our clothes and bite at our faces. It was a beautiful day. We started out in the late afternoon, and I took my camera with me because the light of ending day is my favorite. Everything is beautiful in the golden cast of the sun’s breath.

(Photo: Lone glove of a serial killer? Who was Dana? Who took the tail? What evil lurks in the hearts of man on the gravel path?)

Writers both, we look at the world in similar ways. So we noticed things along the trail and commented on them. A fox’s tail without it’s fox, a pair of sunglasses, graffiti painted on the tree in iconic anguish, a glove without its partner – these all pointed to a dark, central theme. Then the sun painted its best hues, and the bare trees became beautiful all over again.

We kept to the trail for an hour until reaching another town. Taking a short break, we contemplated how much daylight we had left.

(Photo: The elevator was humming with industry in Walton)

“What is it,” Aimee asked, “a fist for every hour or half-hour?” as she pointed her fists to the horizon, noting the gap between the land and the sun.

“I dunno,” I said. “I really need a watch. I’m thinking we’ve got about an hour, hour and a half.”

(Photo: Sometimes light is just a joy, a peeking)

We jogged for a bit, racing against time, before returning to our purposeful stride. The light was turning amber, and it was beautiful. The wind had a kiss of chill, a foreshadowing of the evening’s overnight low. As the breeze tossed my hair about my shoulders, I realized I have been growing out my hair for exactly that feeling when I can feel nature rushing through me and stirring about my head.

Other path people, runners who had left for parts further, were returning. They breathed past us, fluid. It was then Aimee and I noted that some people are just built for running, their hips seem to gracefully swing back and forth like pendulums, keeping their time and grace. I am not built for running. There is nothing graceful about my jackhammer hips. I am built for challenge – we all are. But sometimes I think we forget that the goal in life isn’t to be suspended in some matrix of comfort and competence, but to move, reject static, pre-fab existences, and to make the most of our days.

(Photo: The bare, emboldened by the light, fingers for the sky)

There’s an African proverb I read somewhere (but can’t remember where):

When death finds you, may it find you really living.

And as maudlin as that may seem at first read, it’s an encouragement. It’s a way of wishing someone well; of reminding one to push past the comfortable plateaus and toward the lively angles of challenge. I think this is why I admire Bruce Lee’s mind so much (and his abs – oh my word). He admonished us, “Be happy, but never satisfied.” There’s a call in that to maintain your hunger, to always know there’s something beyond the plane of satisfaction.

(Photo: Aimee on her path, notes the last golden tree)

There are no limits spare the ones we accept as deliverance. So I’ll be on the path again tomorrow, working my way toward a 10k frame of mind, hammering away with graceless determination. Yet, in the last hour of the day when light bursts to red, even that will be beautiful. I can live with that.

T[R]OPICS OF CANCER

2011-07-10T13:52:00.000-07:00

It was Robert Orben, an American magician and comedy writer who once quipped, "Don't worry about your health. It will go away." When I was younger, back in the days when people still used pay phones and nerds still argued about VHS and Beta, I found jokes like this annoying. It was a difficult time in America, when we were burdened with prosperity, the jackwagons at Coca-Cola thought we needed a "New Coke," and Ronald Reagan was about to demand, "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall." With all that money, with the political landscape flattening our fears of nuclear annihilation, and with our eyes cast toward a golden economic horizon, most people my age had no patience with anything older than yesterday. So when I'd hear a sarcastic quip about aging, I would roll my eyes as if to say, "Whatever, like, that's not going to happen to me."

Flash forward twenty years and jokes about what my mother calls, "the de-crapitation of aging" are real knee-slappers, just like my boobs.

Friday, as I sat in the campus health center holding a plastic bag full of "Feel Your Boobies" bling, my mouth twisted into a sardonic smirk. Looking at the contemporary breast cancer campaign through my aged eyes, I thought of Virginia Slims and the product slogan, "You've come a long way, Baby." I remember when we called breasts, "Breasts." I also remember when daytime television icon Phil Donahue (the talk show king Oprah dethroned before taking over the universe) used his show to promote the "new" laser mammography reliant on "Optical Medical Imaging" (OMI) that would substantially improve the possibility of catching breast cancer (in both women and men) far sooner than previous technologies could. That was 1995.

OMI technology would inspire experiments lasers and thermal heating, and these images would be in vivid color. By 2005, this new technology would be casting "A New Light on Breast Cancer" across the medical community. However, the new technology is very expensive. That's why, twenty-five years after that Donahue show, most women are still slappin' down the mammary mommas onto x-ray slabs, feeling the rush of having one's tits in a wringer, and then shambling home with their mud flaps to wait to hear from their physician. Though machine devices themselves have evolved, the essential radiation-based technology still requires what seems like an archaic fit between a rock and a hard - very hard - place, as this image from Medindia.net demonstrates:

Though the radiation mammography method doesn't seem to have changed much, the public dialogue certainly has. When I was young, breast cancer awareness was for grown-ups. It was one of those concerns that came after menopause, something our mothers had to worry about (eew!). There was an order to the feminine life that didn't even begin, you know, until you were fertile (and therefore a threat to mankind). The order went something like this (though I got most of it wrong myself):

And it was this nuclear, heterocentric, linear progression that occupied a many o' Good Girls' thoughts. People, even women, whispered the word, "breast" and the word, "cancer" back then. So if you were at a baby or bridal shower and all the mothers started whispering, you assumed one of three conversations were happening:

1. The someone's got -lean in close - breast cancer chat

2. The "He's having an affair with a woman half his age"
(a/k/a "The I'm Taking That Bastard to the Cleaners") chat

3. The "I can't believe she gained so much/lost so much" chat (depending on baby or bride, respectively)

No matter what, as a nubile, fertile, doe-eyed icon of feminine youth and possibility, you left the old dogs to chew those bones. Cancer, especially breast cancer, wasn't something anyone under the age of 40 was expected to know anything about. So we didn't. We (mostly) stuck to the order of things. This is why, I suppose, that I found the Feel Your Boobies stuff so damn amusing. For one thing, I had to accept the fact that empowered women were now referring to the Thunder Twins as "boobies." For another, self breast exam was packaged as cool for the younger set. Not only did I get a card explaining how to inspect the livestock, I found lip balm, lotion, and a sticker in the bag.

I wondered if I was supposed to use the lotion while I petted the sweater puppies. Then I wondered what in the hell I was supposed to do with the lip balm. Did it go on before or after? Was I supposed to make myself feel pretty and then tickle the ivories? And why just a sticker when pasties would have made more sense (and fun, really)?

When I got home, I did what most sensible people would do: I put the sticker on my refrigerator and then sat down in front of my computer. Not only did I want to know more about the campaign itself, I wanted to know how this miraculous change in public perception had happened without my noticing it. That's when I discovered two things:

1. I was woefully unprepared for the imagery.

2. You have to be careful when using Google to find the phrase, "Feel your boobies."

There's an official video for the Feel Your Boobies campaign, and I watched it. I watched it five or six times with my mouth hanging open.

Here's the droopy scoop: Medical experts and researchers have determined that the more familiar a woman is with her breasts, the more likely she will be to notice irregularities. You can't just be on a first-name basis with the girls. You have to have a more intimate rapport. For an old codger like me, that meant having to go from calling my ladies Miss Shapen and Miss Droupe to Babs and Betty, taking them out on occasion, perhaps after a glass of Chardonnay and a good movie. They were shy, often hiding in my armpits to reproach my unwanted advances. Sometimes they'd cry the overwhelmed tears of the naive. Sometimes, having once been chaste ladies-in-waiting, they'd blush. But we got through the awkwardness of self-care and respect, and now the kitties purr.

There was once a time when lovers and husbands were the first to notice irregularities in a woman's breasts. Once researchers, doctors, and advocates discovered this trend, campaigns emerged to try to help an American society with hefty Puritanical emotional baggage, accept the concept of really feeling and knowing one's body. That could be why early campaigns used men as examples, and humor, to win over the sort of support Victoria and her secrets can't. Check out this one:

Though breast cancer isn't something to laugh about, the campaigns certainly give one ample opportunity to guffaw, snort, and scratch one's head. Laugh if you must, point, snicker, but know this: Even Ronald Reagan would want you to jiggle your jelly bean bags. Be sure to feel your boobies.

And just so you know, my own story of panic and cancer prevention is developing like a bad tan. To read more about that click here.

For more information, check out the National Breast Cancer foundation's website by clicking here.

CAUSE AND EFFECT

2011-05-17T11:06:00.000-07:00

My next run is in less than a week. I'm doing the Run4theHomeless 5k sponsored by The People's City Mission. Though I don't always agree with the spiritual mission of the program, I do support the free/reduced-price medical clinic the mission supports by courting medical professionals to volunteer their time. The mission calls this "social entrepreneurship" and provides medical care to uninsured or underinsured people in Lincoln without using federal money of any kind. The rhetoric of the mission itself is fascinating in a time when the politicos opposed to a federal healthcare intervention call such care "socialism." I also find the mission's use of visual rhetoric interesting (but perhaps a bit overdone). But these are small critiques of what is, essentially, the only focused program seeking to serve thousands of people in the City of Lincoln.

Finding a cause helps me to determine the sort of effect I'd like to make on my community. This run is just one small part of my own mission: to get up and on with life. By raising money with the Lucky Bucketeer Team (click here to support my run on June 11) that will support People's City Mission, I'm also helping myself. The exercise and training, the focus on giving, and the sense that through a collective effort change is possible, make the sweating on sweltering June days worth it. Perhaps the secret to living well is finding a cause and effect.

My Lucky Day

2011-05-14T22:35:00.000-07:00

“The miracle isn’t that I finished. The miracle is that I had the courage to start.” – John Bingham

When I arrived at the Lucky Bucket Run, it was a cool fifty degrees. Runners of all ages and ability milled about the staging area. Some were in costumes. Most were not. A very tall bloke dressed as Batman slipped through the throng. A gorilla in a shell bikini sauntered past. A woman in a body leotard stood nearby, taking position next to her friend. I took their photograph.

Standing with my friends among the runners, I was thinking through my strategy, repeating my motivational mantra: Finish, but don’t finish last. A man tapped my shoulder.

I turned. He smiled. I ovulated.

“Can you tell me where to get a time chip?”

“Uh, yes,” I said, and pointed to the nearby tables. We locked eyes for a moment. He smiled again. Another egg neared my right fallopian tube, ready to jump like an ovarian paratrooper.

“Thanks,” he said, “have a great race!”

“I just did,” I mumbled as he turned and walked away.

When I turned around to rejoin my friends’ in conversation, Kate laughed. “You should have seen your face!”

“Oh my god,” I said, struck with an incredulous smirk. “It’s been years since that’s happened.”

(PHOTO: My friend and his besties)

Blushing pink on a grey Saturday afternoon, I shambled toward the start and packed in with hundreds of others. Before the herd would be released, a man with a trumpet and standing atop the Lucky Beer delivery truck would play a soulful, funeral-dirge version of our national anthem. His silver horn pointed to the darkening sky with an American flag flapping in the breeze beside him, he nailed it. I smiled. To be atop a beer truck while playing The Star-Spangled Banner seemed to me to be a highlight of any American musician’s career.

Freshly fertile, wearing my racing tag and time chip, and oozing contemplative patriotic pride, I plodded onto the course at a listing, spasmatic pace. I passed three ladies with substantial curves dressed as princesses with billowy tutus. I slipped through a group of women walking together, already regretting the trail race.

Unlike the tidy training trails the Lucky Bucketeers have used for the last couple of months, the race terrain was formidable. Just after the first mile, the first of three water challenges provided an opportunity to schlep through some muck and a creek. The second water challenge, however, was a deeper and steeper ravine. Course workers provided ropes to help runners scale the slick wall of mud on the other side of the creek. Instead of taking that obstacle head-on, I opted to take another route. It was steep but less traveled, and though it cost me some time it was worth the safer ascent.

By this time, runners were spread thin along the route. I often had large stretches of the run to myself. As I ran I could see the sprawling, rolling hills outside of Ashland green with spring rain, an emerald foundation holding up a clouded sky. Prairie birds chatted and chirped. The deep scent of ground, of damp earth and trampled grasses, filled my lungs. I could taste the earth as the sky, mischievously mottled with patches of deep grey, threatened rain and urged me onward.

Between the second and third mile markers, the route became a lesson in pain mastery. A steep upgrade stretched before me as far as I could see. I slowed my pace, listening to the sound of my Keens hitting the packed ground, my breathing, and my heartbeat. My hamstrings played a symphony of burning notes as I scaled the route. I knew I was, by all definitions, a straggler. Though I could hear the moans and exclamations of runners behind me, I could also hear those runners who had already finished partying down at the finish line.

I pushed onward, slowing to an aggressive walking pace, repeating my mantra. Just finish, but don’t finish last. As I reached the apex of the curved earth, I felt a surge of pride. Picking up my pace, I focused on making the halfway mark of the route: a beer-stop.

Alone on a stretch of wooded pathway, I could hear the quick pace of an approaching runner. As he passed me, he slowed to my pace briefly.

“Hey,” he said, “You’re doing a great job! Keep it up!” before leaving me. I smiled as I watched him disappear into a curve.

When I arrived at the beer-stop, workers were packing up the tables and putting them onto golf carts. There were pitchers, some full, some half-full, on a service table. As I approached, a woman worker called out, “We’re out of cups!”

I spied a pitcher, half-full. It beckoned me with its amber charm.

“I don’t need your cups!” I said as I scooped up the pitcher and drank deeply from its brim.

“Atta girl!” a man called out.

I put the pitcher on the last table and pounded toward the last water challenge. As I reached its edge, I understood the difficulty and felt a twinge of panic seize me. I turned, jogged twenty feet back to that pitcher and picked it up again.

“I need courage,” I said as I slugged down several gulps of ale. After an epic belch and a high-five from a race worker, I ran toward the obstacle. The descent was nearly forty degrees – not quite a straight-down drop, but close. Trampled down, slick, nothing but mud and stubborn grass clumps, all one could do is surf. Using my right hand as a rudder, I slid my way down in a big, muddy swoosh until I reached the water’s edge. Momentum pushed me upright as I crossed the water, splashing and determined. The ascent could be ranked, I swear, as a modest 5.5 slab. There was a rope dangling down the slimy route.

Instead of taking the rope, I quickly looked to the left and right of it to see which way offered the best hand and foot holds. “Screw the rope,” I said, and let my climbing skills take over. I ascended fast and was feeling pretty awesome. Workers on the other side yelled, “Woot! Way to go!” and clapped as I grabbed a tree trunk and then leapt toward another. It was a minor free-solo mud victory.

As I left that challenge behind me, I could hear other runners yelling and squealing. Energized and bolstered, I followed the route into the woods. Alone again, feeling my side ache, missing my running shoes, I carried on. I was beginning to lose faith that the race would ever end. As I rounded a curve, I realized I was in the final stretch. I could see the parking area. I could hear the music and smell the burgers grilling at the finish line staging area.

A man approached from the opposite direction. “Are there others behind you?”

“Yep,” I said, “there are folks back there.”

“Good, I can’t find my wife.”

As I reached the paved section a fifty yards or so from the finish line, Kate and Derek were there, cheering. I got a high-five as I pushed past. The final yards were uphill, asphalt-hard, and I noticed some runners were already on their way to the parking lot. As I passed a group of young runners, clearly underage and without their free drink tickets, a dolled up girl holding onto her boyfriend said, “Oh my god, I can’t believe there are people still running.”

I vexed her immediately. “May your thighs become thunderous, and your cellulite profound,” I muttered, “and your syntax sucks.”

Just a few yards from the finish line, my friend Travis was there to take a photo. A woman I didn’t know ran up to me to congratulate me on my finish. “Great job! Keep it up!”

As I crossed beneath the finish banner and stepped over the line, I came to an abrupt stop. Overjoyed, exhausted, I did a jig and a few pelvic thrusts. My friends were right there, awaiting high-fives and grinning.

It wasn’t a flat course like a typical run. It was a 7k trail run with challenges. I did it in an hour and twenty-two minutes, hardly a prideful pace for Spandex-clad seasoned runners. But I didn’t care. As I sipped my beer with my friends, as I felt the dead ache spreading up my legs like a rising tide, even as the temperature dipped below fifty degrees, I radiated a warm sense of accomplishment and self-gratitude.

When the trail got tough, I had thanked it for its lesson. When the trail emptied and I was alone, I was grateful for the solace. When the wind blew chill, I thanked it for the relief it brought. It was a cool kind of beautiful out there. My mind was empty of its doubts, and this was beautiful, too.

I finished, but I didn’t finish last. I ran. I conquered. I smiled. I ovulated. And the beer was damn good.

I guess it was just my lucky day.

(Un)Lucky (Puss)Bucket Run

2011-05-04T12:03:00.000-07:00

A couple of months ago, when I discovered the Lucky Bucket Inaugural Run, I thought it was a normal sort of course near Ashland, Nebraska. I rallied some friends. We formed the Lucky Bucketeers and started meeting on Lincoln trails to train. Working hard, encouraging each other, and convinced the run would be on the many trails at the Quarry Oaks Golf Course, we figured we had this one in the bucket.

And then this video came out:

It's a good thing the Lucky Bucketeers are such a dandy band of good-natured ladies, else I'd be tied to the hood of someone's car by now and driven into the country. And while I'm laughing about this change of course, this new set of challenges, I'm also certain that if I bail on this now, I will kick the bucket at others' hands.

And, because I can't stop myself from laughing, this challenge is just another drop in the ... bucket.

Bring it!

TURNING

2011-05-02T12:28:00.000-07:00

(Scooter demands I ride right meow).

It's been a busy week for me here in Lincoln, Nebraska. The end of the term has finally arrived. Campus smells of undergraduate fear, pending finals, and last-minute scholarship. Today marks the onset of final exams, evident in sights I saw as I approached my office:

Two students outside the chemistry building, giving each other high-fives

A lone student huddled in the shadow of the computer science building, smoking, staring off into the distance, muttering to himself

A female student sitting on a bench, crying into her cell phone, "My math class is such bullshit, Mom."

This reminded me of a song by Of Montreal, "Gronlandic Edit," and the line, physics makes us all its bitches. It does, so I smiled.

Though I'm tempted to write at length about the latest developments in the "War on Terror," I won't. All I can tell you is that the celebration of anyone's death makes me uneasy, as if I'm toeing a fine line between the soulfulness of faith and the soul-less nature of human hungers for vengeance. Instead, I prefer to think of the families missing their fathers, and mothers, sons and daughters, lost to war, lost to unspeakable violence, and try to hold their hearts in view, in mindful meditation. Words can never do justice to such loss - only love and respect can hold up the heartbroken. And the last decade has broken many hearts all over the globe.

On my mind today is how easy it is to treat love as a noun, as a thing to acquire or lose, instead of an imperative. "Love!" as a direction, an order ... can you imagine the chaos following such an order would create? Can you imagine the disruption you could unfold in your own life? What if we all followed the same imperative at the same time? What if love as a verb, as something we do, was unbound and released into the universe at the same time?

Whenever the world doesn't make sense to me, whenever I sense a current event is playing at the fringe of present and history at the same time, I think about love, about people as people ... regardless of origin, country, or creed. When it comes to love, just as when it comes to food, there's never enough to go around the world so that everyone feels full, sustained. People need both food for their bodies, minds and nurishment for their spirits. I believe love and respect will be what brings both to everyone. But that's just my sentimental waxing ...

While the world turned yesterday, I headed out to run without the Bucketeers. During our run last week, when a sudden downpour helped me to realize I could run a mile in one shot, I had a breakthrough. For weeks now, I've been holding back. I couldn't quite regulate my breathing, wouldn't let my body do what it wanted to do to support running: breathe on its own terms, its own rhythm.

This was, I concede, a matter of pride. I didn't want to sound like a wheezing accordian. I didn't want my labored breath to be the baseline for the tenor slapping of my thighs. I didn't want to sound like a "Huff, huff, slap, slap" sort of one-woman band. Worse, I wasted a lot of time wishing, to myself, that I could run like the ladies in my group. I denied myself encouragement in my inner-monologue, instead allowing my thoughts to be negative, judgmental.

That is, until the rainy afternoon. Head down, rain seeping into my clothes, blurring my vision, the crisp chill of spring raising goosebumps on my skin, I realized my body knows itself better than I, the mind atop it, do. I let go. I ran, focusing on the path, the rain, on getting to my car. I didn't try to breathe quietly, either. I flapped, slapped, puffed, and huffed all the way to my car where I stood in the rain, hands above my head like a champion boxer, and celebrated my arrival.

Fellow Bucketeer Kim jumped out of her car to join me. "Yay!" she yelled, "Nothing can motivate you like bad weather!" We then jumped in our cars to head our separate ways.

It could have been endorphins, but for at least fifteen minutes on a Wednesday afternoon, I loved myself deeply, respectful of my Self, its body, its possibilities. Chilled to the bone, shivering, I picked up some Indian spiced soup and naan, then headed home where I sat by candlelight, listening to music, marveling still at what I had done. I went to sleep Wednesday night grinning like a big dope.

Love. Such an interesting thing to apply inward, to hold to oneself warmly as if holding hands up to a fire. The warmth radiates, comforts. Yet, suspicious of its depth, by Sunday I wasn't so sure I could repeat my Wednesday success. My mind grew restless with doubt. What if it was just a fluke? What if it was the rain that pushed me? What if I can't do it again?

I suited up and headed for the trail, uncertain, doubting. Love. So hard to stoke, to protect. Love. Beginning anew even when doubt and self-loathing invite inertia, in settling down in the comfort of one's mediocrity - it turns out love as an imperative is a lot like other verbs: Run! Go! Try! Breathe!

As I hit the trail, I realized all I had to do was let my body drive. My mind would follow, catch up, and even fight, the trajectory of forward momentum. I put my head down, focusing on just making my feet move in a reliable, steady pace. For the first time since beginning training, I ran 3 of the 4 miles on our route. As I approached the turn-around spot, I felt my legs burning. I slowed. I realized I had run well beyond my imagination. I had outrun my head for the first time in my entire life.

Grateful, I hugged the stop sign at the trail's edge and ignored the curious stares I received by passersby. I headed back down the path, running taller, hands up in the air, joyful, strong. Love. It makes the impossible, possible.

When I woke today, morning sun held my room in a warm glow. With legs stiff from yesterday's work, I plodded to the kitchen to brew coffee and make breakfast. I made a point to thank my body for working hard by feeding it well with a bowl of oatmeal and dried fruit. As I sipped coffee and read a book, I felt Scooter's stare. I turned to see him sitting on my bicycle seat as if to remind me that I had made a committment to bike commute to work. I took his picture before packing up, donning my helmet, and heading out the door.

Love. In the bigness of internatinal terrorism, and compared to the losses others have endured and continue to bear, my discoveries and progress could seem small, unimportant. Yet, if I turn the lens just a bit, and one can see that in a world full of hate, madness, war, famine, and suffering, one can find love moving through a community, on a trail, on the labored breath, in the wind, and beating in the heart of someone who just passed by.

Looking through that lens, well, love seems like a pretty big deal.

COMMUNITY

2011-04-20T09:11:00.001-07:00

(PHOTO: Climbing godfather Jon Cannon celebrates his 40th birthday face-down)

In America when experts discuss the "obesity epidemic" and its possible solutions, the emphasis on change is most often a focus on the systematic, the "efficient" models for weight loss. There's tremendous focus on food and calories, and diets are recommended. There's a punitive, punishing attitude abundant in the diet industry's rhetoric because diets are structured against time. Results are pandered as quick, discipline-driven evidence of one's dedication, even as the national companies claim under their spokesmodel pictures, "Results not typical."

Diets are marketed as time-dependent solutions to what is, essentially, a life-long problem. And true to America's love of Frederick Taylor's "scientific management efficiency model," to its Henry Ford fantasy of mechanized production of reliable, predictable results, the diet industry replicates formulaic systems designed to work for every body. Dieting is sold as an individualized struggle, which again reaffirms the American tenets of "rugged individualism." If you're fat, there's something wrong with you, and it's up to you alone to fix it.

This business approach to body ignores rich histories steeped in anthropological tradition. The communal aspect of living, of humans as hunters and gathers, as social creatures who establish cultural traditions - music, art, providing, family, community, and even culinary histories - are often ignored, set aside as academic. The very social nature of people, the way we are born into a familial tribe and socialized to see all things, including the dinner table, in the ways our fathers and mothers do is ignored. Most Americans don't see the intersections where individual and community meet. In the most basic of ways, even our food supply is stripped of its communal connections. Giant, discount super stores display products that are no doubt, manufactured by real people somewhere, somehow - but the connection between what we buy and the state of our larger, national or even global communities is missing from the labels and displays.

Unless one goes to a farmer's market, one won't meet the person who tended the vegetables one buys. One won't get a chance to shake the hand of the rancher who brought his beef and pork to market, won't chat with the woman who brought eggs and honey to the market square, won't share a recipe with the vendor selling the rich, vibrant greens beneath a tent. The independent dairy farmer selling cheese, the small family making money to buy a home by selling tomatoes, squash, and cucumbers, the elderly couple selling breads, cakes, and pies - all of these are missed with a single trip to a supermarket, erased. The "buy local" movement in America isn't simply a matter of commerce. It's a matter of responsibility, of connection to one's community in ways that foster growth, happiness, and sustainability.

How we buy, more than what we buy, affects our communities, ourselves, including the solutions to our alleged problems. How we live, who we are, how we spend our time, is also a matter of community. As Dr. Nicholas Christakis asserts in his book, Connected, humans live their lives connected through social networks - and these networks shape what we think, feel, and do. Christakis posits that our communities are like superorganisms, a collective entity that shapes individual perceptions, behaviors, and outcomes. As Christakis writes:

Seeing ourselves as part of a superorganism allows us to understand our actions, choices, and experiences in a new light. If we are affected by our embeddedness in social networks and influenced by others who are closely or distantly tied to us, we necessarily lose some power over our own decisions. Such a loss of control can provoke especially strong reactions when people discover that their neighbors or even strangers can influence behaviors and outcomes that have moral overtones and social repercussions. But the flip side of this realization is that people can transcend themselves and their own limitations (xii).

(PHOTO: Beth cheeses while lamenting the lilac color of her tassel, pleased to be nearly finished with architecture studies)

A typical dieting scenario within American households and supported/marketed by women's magazines: The mother/homemaker wants to shed a few pounds. The magazines offer a diet for one instead of a family option. Individual women will then try to exert intense self-discipline for their own eating choices while still cooking what the rest of the family prefers. The woman's struggle is considered separate from the family and she is alone in her desire to make lasting changes. Magazines offer advice such as: "Phone a friend when you're tempted to cheat," and "Make your own plan-friendly snacks for those family nights in front of the TV when the popcorn and chips tempt you."

What's missing from the national conversations about health and well-being is the notion of community. Who you spend time with shapes how you treat yourself. An individual's health within a family is dependent on the entire family - it's traditions, habits, and lifestyle choices. And friends, the social networks you select outside of familial bonds, affect your choices, habits, and outcomes - even those you take on alone, like a diet. What's also missing is a conversation about the way communities treat individuals, the ways in which the hardness of life creates insatiable hungers in our young people that go unsatisfied. Childhood obesity isn't a matter of calories and a lack of self-discipline. Something else, something much more complicated than the Self is influencing our children to make such unhealthy choices, to eat needing more than nutrition. I'm not sure our country is prepared to have those conversations, to look at our nation's children and consider that millions are obese while millions more children go to school uncertain there will be food for their family at the end of the day. It seems America prefers to maintain an individualism at all costs - even those our children pay.

Community is essential to one's well-being and potential. I didn't need to read the research to experience this idea first-hand. At the UNL Climbing Wall, there is an established yet evolving community of climbers. As a collective, the superorganism provides support, enthusiasm, and care. One can't climb alone at the wall - one must rely on another to offer belay. As one climbs, one forges relationships with others. One learns to trust and count on those belays. One begins to look forward to the conversations on the bench while waiting for a rope. Recipes are exchanged. Restaurants are reviewed. Weekly group dinners and movie nights take shape. Others will note and compliment a climber on his or her own progress. Victories are shared. Disappointments soothed by good-natured jokes or sincere kind words. This environment is quite different from a dieting center whose members show up, get weighed, suffer the gains alone, but celebrate the losses collaboratively with stickers, small trinkets, and applause - the typical Weight Watchers meeting would be a good example of this.

Instead, one develops relationships that lead to other opportunities, such as climbing at Shelf Road or biking on a Saturday. And when you're with other people who care for their bodies and their minds, you tend to follow suit as the "price" of membership in that community. Your personal changes become part of a larger evolution, almost imperceptible without deliberate reflection, as you yourself become part of the superorganism that is the community itself. You are affecting and being affected by the group - permeable in your changes and influences.

Unlike a diet program, a community doesn't pressure one's growth and personal results to fit into a specified time frame. Change is gradual, part of the superorganism's inherent life cycle. It's kinder to the psyche as one attempts to entertain new possibilities for health and well-being. The voices of failure that so often accompany diets simply fade, even as one radically changes eating habits. The key is to forget the typical goal-setting, such as, "I want to lose 20 pounds before that wedding," and to embrace, "I want to make myself as healthy as I can and have fun while doing it."

It's a radical notion and quite contrary to the American ideology to decide to invest over a lifetime without an end goal, a result, a product, to show for it. In my own experiences during the last three years, I can only testify to the gradual and imperceptible changes that I hadn't considered until sitting down to write this post. For example, five years ago, one could have opened my cupboards and found "staples" such as Nutella, Oreos, chips, microwave popcorn with extra butter, and sodas. My refrigerator was full of processed meat products, easy to fix frozen dinners, and a plethora of unhealthy, over-processed fodder that passed as "food."

Today, if one were to open my cupboard in search of a guilty pleasure, one would be sorely disappointed. Staples are now indeed staples, such as brown rice, oatmeal, tea, honey, beans, whole wheat pastas, and spices. My refrigerator stores vegetables and fruits, dairy, and healthier proteins such as tofu, chicken, and very lean beef. My daughter often complains, "Geez, there's nothing good to eat here." I smile when she does. There's plenty to fuel a body with proper care and concern - and that's revolutionary for me, a person who grew up in a family convinced gravy and melted butter were beverages.

(PHOTO: Ryann, Caitlin, and Stephanie hold baby Easton and discuss Stephanie's upcoming nuptials)

More importantly than my individual changes, I've become part of a larger community. Going to the wall to climb is also going to see friends, to hear news, to share stories. It's a witnessing of life unfolding, like graduation, when Beth, Ryann, and Caitlin will scatter like seeds to the wind to start lives anew. Being there reminds me of the role of generations, as an experienced climber shows a newbie the ropes, as I did last night when a colleague from work took me up on the offer to climb. As I tied Wendy in and explained the process, as she learned to trust herself while climbing up and doing what she never thought she could, there was a collective joy, a palpable happiness, when she reached the top. Those of us who climb know that feeling of a first climb well, that first day when we saw ourselves anew and potential beckoned. Seeing another's personal goal bloom helps us to carry on.

(PHOTO: Steph holds son Easton to the wall)

When I started this project a few years ago, I thought it was a weight loss journey. I thought that I'd be testifying to the benefits of exercise and healthy eating, showing photos that heralded my success, and then end it. What I've discovered along the way is that the journey itself is everything. All I have accomplished, the changes in me that are more evident with each passing day, are a matter of community. I couldn't have done any of it without the support of those near and far. Even more amazing to me is that time is no longer something I'm working against, trying to shape it to meet my demands. Instead, I'm becoming more and more present in the present, taking stock of my day as a day in itself. Tomorrow will come soon enough. Yesterday is behind me.

That isn't to say I always succeed, or that my patience prevails. My vanity gets the best of me sometimes, when I sit writing in a journal lamenting the fact I'm not one of those women men cross rooms to court; or when I'm feeling sorry for myself because all I've learned about love I've learned the hard way, by its absence. What I've learned that's mattered most is that I'm not ruggedly individual. I need others. I want others in my life. I want to inspire people not with my accomplishments, but with my connections to them by caring about what they want to do and become. It's an ethos of collectivity in a world demanding individuality, so I should expect to feel outnumbered, invisible. But when I need to feel a part of something good, when I want to rejoice in others' joys, when I want to laugh and feel as though anything were possible, all I have to do is go to the wall, put on my harness, and ask a friend for a belay.

(PHOTO: Easton, lovely, lovely boy)

And that, like the smile of a child so dear, is all I need to keep believing in myself and the community that makes me possible.

LEGENDS, OMENS, AND DAYDREAMS

2011-04-16T20:04:00.000-07:00

Fridays never come soon enough, especially now that I spend a couple of hours every Friday afternoon with baby Liesl. We do grand things like coo, rattle monkey toys, and contemplate poetry. So far, she prefers the flowing poetry of Ted Kooser and Billy Collins. Anne Sexton made her cry. Sylvia Plath made us both big-eyed and cranky. We're still trying to figure out what we think of Timothy Donnelly's The Cloud Corporation - but I can tell you that though we're still contemplating, we're not sharing the same dark critical forecast shared in a New Yorker review of the book by Dan Chiassan.

We don't subscribe to the claim that, "Donnelly's style must be withstood before it is enjoyed." The great thing about reading poetry to a baby is that because all language is a new, experimental thing to her, everything that flies out of my mouth is a whirling juxtaposition, a wind of words. This takes some of the pressure off of poets and authors, really. In a world that gives words to babies one image at a time, socializes them through lore and story, poets that screw up form and social caste in their poems without implying they're a few years away from baking their brain in a gas oven are a lot of fun. I'm hoping to inspire her independent, artistic thinking. When she's in a good mood, we read Donnelly. When she's not, we turn to Collins and Kooser - their rhythms are softer, metronomic. Because she's the daughter of aspiring musicians, I try to focus on the sounds the poems make more than their meanings or forms. I hope her first virtuoso instrument is language, then I hope she takes up guitar.

Liesl and I had a big day on Friday. She didn't want to take the bottle from me. She wailed. She wiggled. And then she discovered I knew how to make rice cereal. We made an unholy mess of her pink pajamas before she was sated and happy. That's when we read some of Rachel Manija Brown's All the Fishes Come Home to Roost: An American Misfit in India. Brown's memoir shares her years growing up in an ashram in India as her parents followed Baba, the same dude that inspired Pete Townsend. It's a great memoir in the vein of Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs about a childhood lost to parental stupidity. This is why, at the end of chapter two, I put the book down in favor of Kooser's Local Wonders: Seasons in the Bohemian Alps.

It's important to protect innocence after all.

Anyway: After a particularly long afternoon with a baby that didn't want a bottle because she'd rather wait for the breasts to get home from the university, I arrived home to discover the Bolder-Boulder folks had mailed my official participant package. My t-shirt, calendar, time chip, back and front tags, even the little plastic orange ties and safety pins needed to affix my runner's bling - all of it cascaded out of the vinyl package and onto the table. I stared at it for a while, thinking I'd made a horrible mistake. The run is six weeks away, and I'm still struggling to get my lead-like behind through the 7k course for the Lucky Bucket Inaugural Run on May 12. I'm making progress, but I'm nowhere close to the goals had I set for myself.

I crammed everything back into its package, set it on my table, and mentally ran away. Meaning, because it was raining and snowing, I put on my sweatpants and Super Friends t-shirt, grabbed Brown's book, and headed for bed. I finished that sometime before midnight, then grabbed Paulo Coehlho's The Alchemist. It seems as readers go, I'm a marathon kind of gal.

Right before falling asleep, book in hand, I realized that Fate had been delivering interesting genre questions to me. Just last month, I finished a three-month inquiry into legend writing, beginning with Willa Cather's Death Comes for the Archbishop. I turned that collection of papers in to a professor who now wants to co-author a paper. While in Boulder last week, I picked up a copy of Regina Weinreich's Kerouac's Spontaneous Poetics, a book that begins with an overview of the construction of his structure of legend- his Dulouz Legend - and its relationship to his spontaneous prose.

So in a sense, I was primed for Coelho's fable about following one's dream, one's "Personal Legend." Perhaps my inquiry into legend and the book from Boulder were my own version of Urim and Thummim, the black and white stones handed to the boy by Melchizedek, the king of Salem. Or, as I've been thinking today, perhaps pen and paper are my stones and those books simply omens. Whatever the case may be, it seems I'm sitting in the middle of a big questioning of my purpose and personal dream.

I don't remember why I thought running would be a good idea. My dad thinks I'm nuts, mostly because, "Running is serious stuff, Kiddo. Be careful." He has weak ankles, so weak, they give out on him without warning. After biffing on his face in business suits, after falling down stairs from his attic in his workshop, he started wearing calf-high boots all the time. He puts them on first thing in the morning, even before heading to the bathroom. It's not uncommon to find him sitting in his bathrobe and boots, yelling at the morning Fox News financial reports. His mixture of spa robe cozy and militant protection as a fashion statement is an awesome rhetorical situation. Yet I'm the one who's always nuts for trying new things. But who am I to critique his loungewear? I plod about wearing Captain America and The Hulk on my chest.

We all have our uniforms. We all have our armor.

Years ago, in P.E. class with Mr. Oates at Elmira Elementary School, I learned to hate running. Our field was a field by definition, but instead of clipped green Kentucky turf, it was a mown cornucopia of noxious weeds - most of which made me wheeze wildly. We ran as the dry heat of the Vaca Valley beat down on our heads until we all smelled of wet dogs (as children often do). Well, they ran. I hobbled along, wheezing and feeling as if my sides were about to explode. Every other kid, even the one nobody liked, sprinted and darted about. I had the viscous fortitude of sludge. It was then, at the jaded age of ten, that I decided some people were born to run and others, well, others were born to sit around and hate them.

And that was before puberty when the Gods of Womanly Curves cursed me with a spiritual burden that didn't fit into the cups of my Playtex Training Bra. (Incidentally, I never understood why they were called training bras in the first place - training for what?) That's when I learned about the horrific old lady section in our local JC Penny store. My childhood was lost in one shopping trip, standing among the racks of girdles that looked like bleached seal skins. While my compatriots in pubescent warfare trotted about the locker room at Will C. Wood Junior High in their cute, bows on the straps bras that reminded me of butterflies, I rolled through the joint wearing a fabric Sherman tank. I was in the fight of my life, encamped in a Battle of the Bulge far more offensive on my Western Front than anyone could imagine. Running without knocking myself unconscious seemed unlikely. I surrendered. But every now and then, I dreamed of running the way others dream of flying.

Now here I am, years later, wearing better bras that don't destroy my self-esteem, trying to regain forfeited territory. It started with walking - serious walking. Sometimes, on my walks, I was hit with the sudden impulse to run. A burst of energy would bolt through my legs and my instinct was to follow. But, as Coelho writes, "The fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself" (130). I'd wait for the impulse to die by pushing it down with old memories. "You can't run," I'd say. "Thin, agile people run. Maybe later. Maybe after you lose some weight so you don't blow out your knees."

"You'll look ridiculous - all that mammary excess flopping up and down."

"Can't you just focus on the work at hand?"

"You're not a runner."

"Big girls don't run."

"Hold on Iron Priestess of Divine Mercy, gotta walk before you can run."

I told myself a lot of useless, untrue things. I held myself back. I pretended all I wanted to do was walk the Rock Island trail. And then one day, a retired lady with big jugs and a flowing mane of grey hair blew past me on roller blades. She was grinning, wearing a navy sweatsuit, her mass moving gracefully like a Calfornia Blue Whale in the deep. Every part of her was in fluid motion. In her wake, a man I guessed to be in his eighties, though listing to his left, ran after her. His knobby knees were bone white, and he wore black socks. But dammit, he had his running shorts on and a sweatband around his head. He said hello as he bolted past like a man in italics, slanted against the path's black line.

There I was, sans serif and straight, walking in dutiful order. I didn't like this reading of the world in that moment. I didn't like seeing that other people, older people, bigger people, weren't talking themselves out of what they wanted, or needed, to do.

In his fable, Coelho asserts that once one has committed to fulfilling one's personal legend, the universe provides exactly what is needed to complete the journey. Not everything is mystical, of course, but even the most utilitarian can certainly feel that way when laboring to complete a run. Just the other day, as a couple of Bucketeers and I worked the trail, I realized how far I had come as a runner wannabe and a person.

A man passed us who reminded me of my former husband. After a few moments I turned to my friends and said, "You know, a few years ago I would never have been able to do this. My husband would have had none of it."

I explained the nature of his personality, the jealousy, the resentment of my friends and critique of my need for female friendships. Life was hard back then, isolated. He was consuming of those he cared about; he drained those closest to him. I never realized, when we were together, just how exhausted I was. It wasn't until a year after our divorce that I exhaled fully for the first time. I was on my first road trip to Colorado with a friend's brother. I was rolling down the interstate, yelling at cows out the window, making bad jokes, but breathing fully for the first time in eight years.

I thought about this while running and walking with the Bucketeers. I explained to them that I often lived in a state of perpetual wonder as I went about my daily life. It's so different from what I had sought. It's so different from what I expected. I'm doing things I never thought possible then, like climbing, running, and eating vegetables for breakfast. When I had left my old life, I felt a profound terror of the unknown. I knew only that I was dying inside, that I had to follow my dream of getting a Ph.D., of building an erudite life and becoming a teacher. What I didn't know was that someday I'd listen to my legs and let them carry me as fast and as far as they could.

It's the small, ordinary moments of struggle that lead to fulfillment. I'm not fast. I'm not agile. But I'm breathing and running and walking. I'm writing, living, and believing in myself. Perhaps this is why the Bolder-Boulder package seems so intimidating. It's a tangible thing, an omen right there on the table, reminding me that I'm stepping even further away from who I once was, who I thought I could be.

I used to associate running with escape. Now I can see it as a means toward oneself. There are no hounds at my heels. I don't have to defend my right to choose changes, to challenge myself. I just get up, put on my running shoes, and head out the door. I meet up with friends. I laugh. I feel the sun on my face. I let my legend unfold, one mile at a time.

SHELF ROAD REVISITED: Lessons from the School of Hard Rocks

2011-04-13T10:46:00.000-07:00

I’m a part-time philosopher. When going about my business, this thing we call living, I often search for deeper meanings in the metaphors in which I live. This is why I’m single – nobody is supposed to think so hard about the ordinary. Language isn’t just something I toss around like a Frisbee. It’s all sniper fire or bullet spray to me. “There is always debris after discourse,” I often say to my students. Yet, it’s often in the debris where one can find the best gems, the big meanings.

This week, I headed west to visit my favorite dingledodies and climb at Shelf Road. It’s been a year since my first trip when I learned so much about myself all at once, I almost couldn’t breathe (I thought that was just an issue of altitude, but I digress). My climbing trip was epic for me. I “sended” my first on-the-rock route. My camping gear was put to the test and passed. I even changed my clothes in the dark without worrying about anyone seeing my reptilian underbelly and lily-white ass.

That last one was a really big deal to me.

I bared my butt to the Darkness after achieving that send and learning an important lesson (and a few lesions) about gravity. If you want to test your metal and discover what you’re made of, all you gotta do is fall. Fall hard. Fall without clinging. Fall while counting on someone to catch you. I learned this profound truth by doing the exact opposite, and I’m not ashamed to admit that. Failure is where real learning happens.

And thanks to a belay from Adam Scheer of Climbing House fame and a 5.7 route with a nice crack, I learned that my instinct is to hold on even when it hurts like hell. A year ago, this would be where I’d add some sentimental drivel about sticking it out, about overcoming the pain and adversity by holding true to one’s convictions, to one’s heart.

But after scraping the underside of my bodacious ta-tas as I slid down a route like cheese on a grater, I am writing to testify to the merits of falling clean like a cat. There’s no dignity in holding on – just the scraping sound of ineffective smearing and full-frontal failure, followed by the sting of first aid antiseptic and the sense that yes indeed, you are a big boob.

I learned a lot about myself in less than five seconds. Climbing’s lessons are quick and painful, but not every wound scars. Most wounds teach you a lot about what’s holding you back, what’s getting in your way, and what not to do. I appreciate climbing’s directness, its difficulty. It’s not obscure. It’s not even natural. Climbing demands some mastery of both fear and instinct. One can mitigate the risks, but one can never erase them. That’s a big deal in a culture promoting security and stability at all costs.

After learning the painful lesson that came with holding on, we shambled off to a beautiful set of climbs the others were working on – projects they’ve faced before. The hike was good, full of interesting little metaphors and grace (even as I plodded along like an epileptic chicken). I sat watching the good climbers, listening, talking. I sat thinking about my grated boobs and counting my bruises.

At the end of the day, we hiked back to Cactus Cliffs to work a few routes before dark. It was on a corner route that I learned yet another set of painful but important lessons that are, miles away from me, still teaching me something, still offering me things to ponder. I’m hardly finished, but here’s what I think I know:

When it comes to reading a route, as with my reading of people, I’m far too generous. I see possibility before I note difficulty, the opposition. I once considered this one of my gifts, a brilliant optimism in the face of dour circumstances. I so wanted to be sunshine in a clouded world, I failed to note that there’s a certain protection afforded from the grey. So I took my happy ass up a route far more difficult than I could see, and then became a whimpering simpleton as I clung to a ledge, waiting for the throbbing pain in my left knee to subside.

A good little Buddhist wannabe, I stood on that ledge and thanked the rock for its lesson. I thought about Thich Nhat Hanh’s sense of “mindfulness,” and positive and negative energies. I cast love upon the stone, holding my heart against its face, forgetting rock is a cold, unfeeling sedimentary and stoic thing unbothered by my gnat-like humanity.

In the silence on that ledge, feeling the beat of my heart, I realized that rock wasn’t listening, didn’t need to, didn’t want to, couldn’t. It was I that was the interloper, the parasite, feeding upon not what the rock had to offer, but my own delusion and fantasy. I looked upon the route, honest and small. I let go. I leaned back like a cat and let my belay catch me and my failure until we were both lowered to the ground.

Standing on both feet, tied in, looking up, I was glad to have bailed. I was tired. I was spent. The hike back to camp seemed harder, longer, than the hike out. Later that night, stemming in my sleeping bag because I couldn’t let my knees touch, I was thankful for so many things. I could hear the dingledodies a few campsites over, gathered around a fire. I could see the stars, beautiful and twinkling, bright and encouraging. My muscles were stiff, generating heat. I was breathing. I was still.

I was alive.

The following morning, I opted out of climbing. I spent the day reading and lounging beneath the shade of an evergreen. The wind whipped clouds into a froth and twisted jet-stream lines into curls. I made a cup of coffee and contemplated silence. I slept, out in the open, unafraid. I thought about Oneness and compared it to Aloneness, deciding the former was proactive and the latter reactive. I committed myself then and there to making more room in my life for proactive, contemplative living.

A line of poetry, perhaps a Buddhist kohn, came to me: Absence is a hue the color of my name. It reminded me of the Zen Buddhist question: What was your original face before your parents were born? And that reminded me of a poem by Dogen:

Cease practice based
on intellectual understanding,
pursuing words and
following after speech.
Learn the backward
step that turns
your light inward
to illuminate within.
Body and mind of themselves
will drop away
and your original face will be manifest.

It’s in the fall, the dropping away of body and mind that one will be made manifest. Perhaps that’s the lesson of this trip. Perhaps that’s why I’m still thinking and no matter what, the ending to this entry will be incomplete. Or maybe, just maybe, a philosopher's work is never done.

RUNNING LIKE GUMP

2011-03-26T11:53:00.000-07:00

Something happened in October 2010, something I'm still trying to understand. Work grew more intense. Deadlines loomed on my morning horizons and evening sunsets - I couldn't escape the demands no matter how far I traveled. The enormity of change, the wall I face everyday just seemed too big, and I a small, small, clod of waning courage. Looking back, I can see that I didn't intend to quit climbing, to walk away. Instead, I just let other things not as important as my own health eclipse my vision.

I hung my harness to take care of other things. Now, I can see that was a huge mistake.

In January, I woke after a dream to realize I had been hang-dogging, just sitting on the line as if time were on my side. It's so easy to get wrapped up in the momentum of professional life, of "making progress," and so difficult to see the consequence while working so diligently simple pleasures simply vanish. Work is a great hiding place. If you work hard enough, you can hide from even yourself.

On that January morning, as snow fell, I looked outside my window to see life blowing by, drifting. I had a sweet pile of new poems, a manuscript, the beginning of my dissertation work all mapped out. But, I wasn't happy. I didn't feel my breathing anymore, or the steady beating of my heart. There is a feeling beyond numbness, I decided. Nothingness is much worse. I glanced up at the wall and saw my harness hanging there, lifeless, cold. I knew then I had to go back. I had to recommit to joy as a process, a happening, something that will fade if you neglect it, if you neglect yourself.

A few days later, when school started anew, I headed back to the wall. It was humbling to learn I had lost what my climbing friends call "muscle memory." I struggled to finish the easiest route. I struggled to square my shoulders and try again. I struggled to admit that I had lost something important to me and had no idea how to get it back. Though I left the climbing wall that night feeling a new beginning, I also felt the weight of my own disappointment. I'd be back, I told myself, but first there was something I had to face.

I met a colleague for a drink that night and we, after a few cocktails, committed to run a 10k six months later. I'm not a runner. Over the course of my life, I always thought some were born to run and others were born for other things. There were gazelles and then there were hippos. One rushes the reeds, skirts about prairie grasses. The other stands in the muck, up to its double-chin in water, and wiggles its ears. For years, I thought my job was to stand around and wait for things to arrive, taking solace in the river of life.

I used to joke that I'd never run unless by gunpoint. But since January, I've been really working on running. I train four days a week. I now meet friends to run a four-mile path in preparation for the Lucky Bucket Brewery's Inaugural 7k Run. We call ourselves the "Lucky Bucketeers." We meet twice a week. We keep each other motivated and accountable. I call us a herd because on that path we look like refugees from the ark - all kinds of animals shambling down the road, away from and to ourselves at the same time.

In February, feeling encouraged by my running progress, I returned to the wall with new vigor. A friend of mine and her sister attended the certification class. We started meeting once a week to climb and encourage each other. My friend Kati is a much better climber than I am - a natural. What I lack in natural talent, I make up for with enthusiasm and joy. Yeah, joy. It's back. And it feels good to have so many friends to join me in what has been, until this year, a solitary effort.

I registered, too, for the Bolder-Boulder run Memorial Weekend. The goal is to finish without dying. I'm not kidding myself here. I'm out of water, so to speak. I'm just going to plod about the reeds and rumble through the grasses. Some people are light on their feet. I'm light in my heart. And there's something to be said about the simplicity of running - just you, some shoes, and land. Climbing is getting easier, I think, because I've decided to respect the journey, to make way for the possibility that hearing my own labored breathing and the pulsing of my heart is more important than whether or not I can top-out a 5.9 and transition past that marker in skill level.

There's a lot more to getting up than climbing. Sometimes you have to work the lateral routes, the traverses across that which you never thought you could or would do. Sometimes up is a level, a bubble of happy stability between the polar imbalances. That's where I find myself today, anyway.

CYCLES

2010-10-03T23:52:00.000-07:00

(Photo: Fresh off the MoPac with 20.4 miles under our belts and awesome helmet hair)

"Yeah, I get by with a little help from my friends."

Fighting a cold for most of the week, I decided to bail on my long-anticipated return to Shelf Road for what can only be described as a climbing and beer extravaganza. It was hard to let go of the dream, particularly after scoring a freakishly good deal on a sleeping bag earlier in the summer and amassing my own gear. My maternal instincts directed inward, I decided that the trip (however fun) would be too much. I didn't want to get sicker on the road, or experience sleeping in a tent with lows hovering in the 30s when I just didn't feel good. Whiny? Probably. But when you've got a comps portfolio to work on, a demanding teaching schedule, and three major projects looming above your head, it pays to be cautious. I can't afford to get so sick I have to delay deadlines.

By Friday night, I was feeling much better and decided to try to round up a group for a ride out to Eagle, Nebraska on the MoPac trail. Three of my friends joined me, and I think we couldn't have asked for a better day. WIth the high hovering at 65, with a crisp fall breeze to our backs (except one brutal stretch two miles outside of Eagle when the wind was angry and in our face), and with great joy, we tackled the trail.

Since moving in June, I've been a real bike commuter. I barrel down busy streets like a bike messenger wannabe. I wear my cycling clothes to handle weather and pack my work outfits in a saddle bag. It's easy for me to rack up 15 - 20 miles of riding each week as I work and play. On the weekends, I like to take on a long ride to clear out the cobwebs. I usually listen to music while mulling my week, thinking through difficulties of the heart, and just enjoying the simple act of moving and breathing.

Until this weekend, riding has always been a solitary, meditative act for me. On occasion, my son would join and we'd ride out on the MoPac so he could tell me stories. He moved to California a month ago, and I miss him. This, now that I think about it, is probably what urged me to ask my friends to go on a ride. It's all too easy for me to remain comfortably within my own insular existence, to do my own thing and go my own way. I'm glad I didn't do that this weekend.

I've been feeling a bit disappointed in the workings of my own body lately. My metabolism has slowed, making weight loss difficult. Turning forty, it turns out, is like hitting a caloric brick wall. Just this month, I added circuit training to my weekly routine three times each week to increase my activity while building muscle - muscles that will (Lord willing) burn fuel. When I woke Saturday, I tried to push this frustration from my mind. I was marginally successful.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't missing the Colorado crew and the climbing opportunity. Since my first trip to Shelf, I've wanted to go back just to prove I could top a rock route and enjoy the view. I also miss the Boulder gang very much - I think about them every day. Getting out with Lincoln friends helped to assuage my feelings of disappointment that I didn't go to Colorado. As we loaded bikes into the back of a truck, as we all joked and teased each other, it felt good to be with my Lincoln crew, to be together doing something outside of our bimonthly beer binges.

Out on the trail, riding the crushed gravel trail covered in fallen leaves, the scent of fall aroused my senses. I love the smoky, earthy tones of autumn, the crisp air, and the colors that seem to burst forth from tired trees and trail-side plants. As we rushed past thistles topped with cotton and farmers' fields turned to golden rest, it felt damn good to be alive. Though two-thirds of the route to Eagle is a steady uphill grade that burns the thighs, I was still grinning like a village idiot. As I pedaled, I found my thoughts wandering through my memories; through the years before I discovered just how fantastic my Trek I named Old Blue is, and how much fuller my life has been since I shambled into the bike store and laid down some cash.

Life on a bike, I think, takes me back as it brings me forward. That's why I like it. I'm at once the best parts of childhood and my grown-up life, wheels turning, spokes shining, pedals moving ... it's glorious, this biking thing.

After we descended upon the bustling main drag of Eagle, we stood in front of the One Eyed Dog bar and ate our snacks. I chomped down a Kashi bar and a navel orange. A friend ate some yogurt and an apple. We rehydrated then made the mad ten-mile rush back to the trail head. As I rode ahead, I felt the weeks of commuting had paid off. I wasn't overly tired. I didn't feel as though I wanted to give up, either. Instead, I felt very efficient and relaxed - cycling nirvana.

The day itself was full of laughter and smiles. We ate together at a local pizzeria, then headed to my house so the gang could meet Scooter, my 9-week old kitten and P'UP mascot. When everyone had gone and I was alone in my apartment with Scooter purring on my lap, I felt very lucky. Somehow, despite all my poor choices, I've ended up with good friends in two states. And though a part of me still wished I'd gone to climb in Colorado, it was the selfish part - the one who wants everything right away, in an instant. There will be other trips, other climbs. I miss those special people, but even as I do I know they would have been very proud of me had they seen the gang and I on the trail, living our lives, in and on cycles.

(S)Nailing It

2010-09-24T22:25:00.000-07:00

My bathroom ceiling, under the weight of water seeping from the upstairs neighbor’s bathtub plumbing gave way on Monday. On Wednesday, I learned that no matter how much time I give myself for assessing and responding to students’ work it’s just not enough. By Friday, I figured out that students don’t always respond to teachers’ comments with the same care and concern teachers offered them.

In short, it’s been a long week.

I did, however, finally get back to the wall. Considering how long I’ve been away, I made a snail’s progress. Well, beginner’s progress all over again. It seems I’ve forgotten how to manage the first few moves of a route. By the time I make it past the bouldering line, I’m already lost in the disgust I felt fumbling first moves. This, I hate to admit, is evidence of flawed logic. I am my own worst enemy (as most of us are).

I used to think I was an optimist, one of those people who think of the glass as half-full. And that may be true when it comes to everything but two things: A half empty pint and a route. Though I knew both routes I pushed today were designed to teach specific skills, such as foot and hand matching and footwork, and though I could see the problems themselves as valuable, that did little to assuage my feelings of futility.

I didn’t get to come to the work completely focused on it. I was squeezing some climb time into an already over-packed schedule. Did I take that into consideration as I put feet and hands on that 5.8 first go? Nope. Did I take an inventory of my mind to make sure I was just thinking about climbing instead of all the crap I still had to do with my day? No sir. The fact I had to bail halfway through a 5.7+ so I could make it to a meeting didn’t help me one bit.

Instead, I did what so many do: I took what Buddhists term “beginner’s mind” – a frazzled conscious without a central focus – and tried to force myself to perform. To add to my imbalance, I hadn’t hydrated or eaten properly all day. So when I needed some “oomph” from my muscles, it wasn’t there. All I had put in my gullet by 3:30 p.m. was a Chocwalla bar and a container of organic Greek yogurt. That’s not even a rookie move. It’s just complete disregard for the sanctity of one’s physical needs. There was hardly enough nutritional power there to support activity more rigorous than a nap.

After climbing, I rushed to meet with an angry student who both lauded my intellect and cursed it at the same time (a common response I get from students unaccustomed to being challenged by both intelligence and confidence), I jumped on my bike and hauled ass in order to make it to yet another meeting. I carpooled to a department function, still feeling the sweat from the ride running in rivulets down my back. Though I talked and ate with colleagues, I can’t claim that I was fully present in those moments, either. I was still back at the wall, thinking about all I didn’t accomplish.

That’s what “beginner’s mind” is: a lack of presence in a present moment.

And it wasn’t until I sat down at home with a cup of tea, listening to myself breathe in the silence of my apartment, that I realized just how busy I had been all day. Shoulders tight, legs still burning from the day’s load, I realized I had forgotten to be mindful of, and thankful for, my breath, for the very life force that keeps me going. I had forgotten to protect, love, and honor my body by feeding it with care. Instead, I had jumped onto that treadmill of “accomplishment” and “tasks,” without thinking about anything more than ticking down a list of things I needed to do.

So now I’m wondering this: When did doing become more important than being?

I’ve been thinking about Thich Nhat Hanh and his call for us to be present in our bodies, to focus on mindfulness and breathing, on smiling and loving each moment. I’m wondering now, as I sit here in front of my computer, what would happen if I took the concept of mindfulness and applied it to climbing. “If an action is motivated by compassion and understanding,” Hanh says, “then that is good enough to be called a Buddhist action.” I’d argue, regardless of faith or religious affiliation, that if an action is motivated by compassion and understanding, then that is good enough to be called an act of love.

So what would happen if I brought presence and love to climbing, to those difficulties of each problem, and to each moment I stepped or reached? What would happen if I breathed with each move, and smiled, as if the act of climbing were a meditation of its own?

I’ll let you know. I’m going to try that on Sunday. I’ll be sure to post a full account of my effort to love myself, even as I struggle, and to care more about being on a route than doing it. I might go at a snail's pace, but I just might stick to my routes, too.

WAKE UP, BEAUTIFUL!

2010-09-19T23:33:00.001-07:00

(PHOTO: Stunned self portrait. "Bed head No. 3")

"Being affirming and self-accepting happens easily if we consciously practice refusing to embrace negative accounts of ourselves and our realities." - bell hooks

I've been doing a lot of work lately, work that has kept me far from the leisurely hours of morning writing. My dissertation work is in full swing now, and I'm beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel. As my brain cooks big thoughts, however, my morning bed head has been reflecting back to me the status of my inner mind. Every morning for the last month, I've risen with sloth-like grace, lumbered to the bathroom, and looked in the mirror. My hair has given me the first chuckle of the day every day for the last 30.

The photo above is my first self-startling attempt to capture the magic. The preview flash dazed, but I prevailed. Mornings are rougher than they once were, and I can't blame it on an active night life at the local pub. No, whatever is happening to my head on the pillow is a mystery to me. Of course, most of the things going on in my head are.

I took a break from climbing. I had to - I had reached the wall of my own inability to risk. I couldn't get up or over it. Instead, I would show up to the wall, give a few half-hearted attempts at projecting, and then ask to be lowered. I wish I could blame the difficulty of ascension on a lack of talent or the difficulty of the routes themselves. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on my mood, the problem came down to my being gutless. I've been afraid to let myself grow. The progress, or rather the possibility of progress, scared me spitless.

In my intellectual life, I take risks all the time. I'm not afraid of inquiry or the complexities that come from questioning all that seems "inarguably true." But in my lived life, I tend to cower. I tend to refuse possibilities or ignore the knock at opportunity's door. For the longest time, I attributed this to my socially awkward ways. Then, I decided my cowardly nature was due to a poor body image - I always have to negotiate (and renegotiate) my sense of physicality. For years, particularly the last ten, I thought being overweight was the reason for all of my problems.

I have, over the years, figured out a way to connect just about everything to my weight. I created an anvil to hoist upon my shoulders, something that could keep me down and miserable; something that could keep me isolated. And it wasn't until I had to take a step back from climbing that I could hear my inner critical voice and recognize it for what it really was: Batshit insanity.

So a month ago, I decided that it was time to take risks in order to regain an appreciation for my physical self. This was no small task. My first act of resistance was to reclaim an activity I often said I could or would never do: run. Thinking in terms of approaches to climbing areas, I thought running could help me to gain the endurance and strength to hike to a climbing route and not exhaust myself before I ever donned my harness. Thinking in terms of self-respect, I wondered if taking on running would help me to see something new about myself I couldn't see without it.

While researching training plans, I found the "Couch to 5k" program online and joined it. I've been working on interval training for a month and I'm making progress. It's a big deal to me, I think, to be able to run two minutes and walk three for a total of 30. When I started I could barely manage the thirty-second run. I also felt horribly self-conscious taking my place on the track or among the treadmills at the gym. But I did what the "experts" said I should, and I made sure I celebrated (through positive self-dialogue) even the smallest of accomplishments.

And then, when running started to feel good, I bought some shoes.

Three weeks ago, I added circuit training to my routine. I went to orientation, worked with the trainer to figure out my limitations, and then got down to the serious business of learning to let go of all that which diminishes my ability to love myself and to love my body. Some feminists claim the hours spent working out are part of the oppression of a patriarchal beauty aesthetic. Others would claim my body image struggle would be ended if I just "learned to love my big, beautiful body." Hell, they may be right. But(t), what happens if you like working out? What about self-respect gained through marveling all the strong, wonderful things a body can do?

As you can read, I'm nowhere near finished with my self-inventory. And I'm nowhere finished with climbing. I'll be back at the wall Tuesday. It's time. It's time to stop thinking I'm wasting others' time if I project a route. It's time to stop beating myself up for all the years I didn't take care of myself. It's time to stop worrying about what others think of my body and just let it live by doing the things that bring me joy and self-respect.

Existential navel gazing? Perhaps. A slogging through middle age vanity issues? Maybe. But since beginning P'UP a year ago, I've come a long way. I bike commute to work. I carpool to the grocery store. I've changed my eating habits radically in just twelve months, and enjoyed it. I put down the pack-a-day habit and took up running - or trying to run. I've had setbacks, like a broken heel. But I've also had personal victories, like my first outdoor climbing trip to Shelf Road.

But more than that, I've learned it's time to let go of my nightmare self-loathing and wake up, beautiful.

Crux(iFiction)

2010-09-10T07:38:00.000-07:00

I've hit a physical, personal, and professional crux. That's right, I know I've been hangdoggin' on this blog. But I'll be writing this weekend .... and I've got a lot to tell you.

DROPPING JAWS

2010-06-29T23:38:00.001-07:00

“You’re going to get so much action in this place!” Kate exclaimed as we moved yet another wave of boxes into my new apartment. Her enthusiasm and foresight, I suspect, were symptomatic of exhaustion.

“Ooh baby,” I said, “Welcome to my swingin’ bachelorette pad. You know, ‘ho’ + use equals house.”

And it’s jokes like that, I think, that serve as an inoculation to prevent social interaction with the opposite sex. I am as immune to dating as I am to small pox, mumps, measles, and polio. Good thing, I suppose, since all of these afflictions are kind of a bummer and can sometimes be fatal.

(I know - a good woman doesn’t make such jests. Let’s just call that last one part of a mounting body of evidence, shall we?)

Over the weekend, while at a bar to wish “bon voyage” to two climbing friends before their trip to Europe, a man crossed the room to join our group. He had that sharp, middle-management suck-up veneer and was a bit too man-tan for Nebraska. His clothes were too “crisp.” His haircut too groomed. He reminded me of the standard issue middle-aged man from Florida, someone who wears golf clothes all weekend while oogling younger women from behind mirrored aviator glasses.

This man we’ll call David (because that’s what he asked me to call him) made a lot of eye contact with me as I sat with my friends. As every Cosmo girl knows, men who look you in the eye for prolonged periods of time (longer than two seconds) and point their torsos in your direction are demonstrating classic attraction symptoms. The secret to wooing, the (s)experts claim, is giving good eye and where you point your chest.

His baby blues were saying something. The thing is, though, I wasn’t sure exactly what. Things were getting lost in translation. There seemed to be a note of urgency, like the hopeful glance a husband gives a wife when it’s definitely time to leave a dreadful party. But there also seemed to be a contemplative pause, which I attributed to either a minor stroke or his response to the waitress’ short skirt and tight tank top.

While I tried to decipher his eye code, I noticed his lips were moving. I focused. I squinted. It seemed he was asking me for directions and I, the ever polite Midwesternite, got up to help.

“So you’re lost?” I asked, setting my pint on the table.

David smiled. “Not anymore.”

He was indeed from out of town. He worked for an internationally known excavation equipment company. He seemed like a very nice man who loved his work – we talked about our shared enthusiasm for our careers. It was a grown-up and lively conversation. An hour later, he said he wanted to spend some time with me while he was in town. I gave him my number and we made plans for dinner the following night.

The exchange seemed natural (unlike his tan). I wasn’t nervous or uncomfortable. I didn’t invite him to my ho + use, either. David, a couple years my senior, seemed like the perpetual bachelor. But he was closer to my age than my ex, didn’t seem like a serial killer, and was genuine in his interest in having dinner with me.

Twenty-two hours later, dressed up and waiting for my phone to ring, my gut instinct foretold the unforgivable: I’d been stood up.

As I washed my face and readied for bed, I thought about all the good-natured pressure I’ve received to get “Out There and meet people.” Why do those who claim to love me foist this absurd notion in my direction? Don’t they remember how brutal the dating scene is? Have they forgotten how awful waiting for the phone to ring feels, or how deep rejection can seep into one’s bones? Don’t they remember the indignity of being stood up for dinner and having to eat the Plan B bowl of Top Ramen? Oh, the humanity! Oh, the horror! Oh, the sodium!

I wish I could report the dastardly stand-up didn’t make me sad, that I lived up to my middle name and powered through my disappointment. But by the end of the night, I was curled into a pathetic mass of quivering inquiry. I often tell my students that life is process, that lessons await us everywhere. So I wondered what Life was trying to teach me, and then asked God to smite David’s golf swing.

It’s not that the guy had swept me off my feet or even that I had been hoping for more than dinner – I’m a realist. I’ve met myself. I know my gifts are often lethal blows to blossoming romance. What bothered me, what really had me against the cerebral ropes, is that I hadn’t gone out of my way to court this kind of experience. I hadn’t gone to the bar to find a hook-up. I wasn’t trolling for dudes. I wasn’t even wearing my good underwear. I’m chaste for fuck’s sake.

In fact, when I had left the house I was content with my life, perhaps even happy, and filling my hours with all kinds of normal, happy things. It’s only been since my move to the new place that I’ve been able to look the world in the eye again – my recovery from last fall's (and my truest) interest in love (and the rejection of it) has been slow.

I thought I was doing well, really making headway with my heart. Certain songs weren’t suffocating me with sudden, inescapable melancholia. I was able to hang out with my merry band of marrieds and cutely coupled without feeling like Uno Royale, their simple and single sidekick; a matronly mascot serving to remind them they were lucky to have someone. This seemed like progress.

Then David McManTan showed up, tossed me a few compliments like Chief Martin Brody tossing chum, and when I surfaced he scurried the poop deck. Though I recognized his cowardice, I also recognized something I’d been avoiding.

For months now, I’ve been working (and perhaps overworking) a poem …

A woman shows a man her treasure, a collection of cobalt sapphires, fiery rubies, glistening emeralds, and twinkling diamonds. “These are my gifts,” she says. “These I will share with you.”

Looking upon her generosity, all he feels is the weight of the stone.

As she explains how beauty is exacted by compression, he senses his own suffocation.

As she shares the facets of her interests, he’s blinded by the glare.

As he walks quietly into the dawn she stares at the gems waking with first light, their colors deepening in holy hues. Aching with joy, she calls to him, longing to show him the illumination.

But he is already too far away. Her voice stirs nothing but the birds in the trees.

She waits.

She sits with her gems so long she too feels their weight.

She sits looking at their glistening colors until she too becomes blind to their beauty.

Without vision, heavy with contemplation, she gathers her stones and buries them again – for real this time.

I know: It’s a total bummer poem. My point: Mr. McManTan popped up into my life just long enough to remind me that I had buried my gems. What a bastard. So now what? Hell if I know. Date an archeologist? Buy a shovel? Bite tourists until someone sends Richard Dreyfuss and the sheriff? Pray there are no sequels?

I suppose I’ll just do the only thing I can: Take it to the wall and sort it out later.

It's Been Awhile

2010-06-23T13:49:00.000-07:00

Like a bran muffin in the geriatric maze of elderly bowels, I am moved.

The newest chapter of my life has officially begun, and I’m please to announce that I am snug and warmly pleased to call my new apartment home. The building is teaming with hipsters doing hipster things like listening to big band jazz first thing in the morning, or baking while wearing a secondhand, vintage apron. The ladies living upstairs wear floor-length caftans and scarves in their hair. The men sport those skinny-leg jeans, smart button down shirts, and aloof intellectual expressions. That’s right, I live among those my best friends mock (and I like it).

This is very different from my previous apartment, with the sounds of yelling toddlers echoing in the halls and the malodorous cocktail cloud of fish and gym socks hanging in the air. There was a hardness to that university space, a modernist severity that just didn’t suit my personality or purposes. I feel as if I’ve found a structure that fits.

I’ve been very busy in this new space. I now know how to properly hang and fit mini blinds. I now own my own ratchet screwdriver and wonder daily why I didn’t own one before. I’ve potted flowers and herbs in big pots on my deck. I’ve learned to ride my bike like an aggressive commuter – taking on traffic even while sandwiched between two metro buses because my city’s bike lanes are in the center of the street. Riding to and from work is my favorite part of the day, mostly because I feel like a cross between Lance Armstrong and Tina Turner: A damn fine cyclist with badass legs.

This assuages, to some degree, how my month-long break from climbing has made me feel as if I’m starting all over again. Between my conference travel and the wall’s closure for maintenance, I’ve lost some of my gains. Going back for the first time just a few days ago was tough – I had to make peace with limitations all over again. I found myself struggling to complete a 5.6 I had climbed many times before. I struggled at the overhang all over again. It wasn’t a good climbing day.

That being said, I am learning to be patient with my body and to appreciate its need of regular care and investment. I’ve been a nonsmoker for 60 days now – that’s 59 days longer than I ever thought I’d be – and I’m still setting training goals. I’m still working on recipes. And heck, I’m still waiting for the cable dude to hook up my Internet and TV to the rest of the world (Friday? Please, Technology Gods, can it be Friday?). It’s difficult to be witty and charming when clacking away in a fishbowl-style library computer area (thanks, creepy dudes for your unseemly behaviors involving your hands and nether regions that made officials restructure this study area to subdue your Grabby McFeely tendencies), so I’m looking forward to working from home.

Other developments:

A student has offered me a cat named Lebowski. I’m thinking about adopting the dude.

I’ve realized ice cream plays a crucial role in maintaining one’s emotional health.

I’m now even more convinced that BBC’s Top Gear is the greatest show on cable Monday nights.

I think I’ll end with that – mostly because my climbing partner for the day is waiting for me. I’ve got to get back at that 5.6 before I give up on this climbing gig completely.

WE ARE EXPERIENCING TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES

2010-06-04T00:13:00.000-07:00

I haven't given up on P'UP or climbing. I'm in the middle of moving from a university grad student family housing apartment to my own hipster lady estrogen compound. I'll be back up and rockin' the wall next week. Please stay tuned!

BERRY BERRY GOOD FOR YOU

2010-05-19T13:21:00.000-07:00

(PHOTO: E.f.R.'s Summer Berry Salad with balsamic vinegrette)

Berry season is a few weeks away for most of us in the Plains, but we can get these summer gems at our supermarkets at sweet prices. Before P'UP, this time of year would have been prime poundcake season, too. I'd be up to my elbows in Cool Whip. Now that I've been smoke-free for 39 days (THIRTY NINE DAYS), and now that I've come to better understand the "bliss zone" of my palette, I'm thinking this season is the start of something rather new (for me).

As I've mentioned before, using vinegars can help you to satisfy salt cravings without increasing your salt intake. Vinegars can also help to intensify certain flavors, particularly those with natural sugars. My favorite all-around vinegars (balsamic, rice, and raspberry) have proven to be rather satisfying when paired up in salads that contain fruits. This week, I made the above berry salad that contains red leaf lettuce, slivered almonds, blackberries, strawberries, and green onions. This is a nutritionally powerful and tasty salad. If you want to add an extra zing, consider adding feta crumbles or blue cheese crumbles. If you add these tart cheeses, consider using pecans instead of almonds, and add a teaspoon of honey to the dressing.

Basic Berry Salad

3 cups torn fresh red leaf lettuce or a mixture of spinach and lettuce
1 cup of sliced fresh strawberries
1/2 cup blackberries
1/4 cup slivered almonds
3 green onions, sliced lengthwise into "matches' (instead of rounds - it's a flavor balance thing).

Basic Balsamic Vinegrette:

1/4 cup good olive oil
1 1/2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
1 tablespoon dried Italian Seasoning (or use three tablespoons of chopped fresh oregano, basil, and thyme)
1 clove garlic, pressed
Salt and pepper to taste
(1 tsp. honey if using blue cheese in your salad)

Combine vinegar, garlic, herbs, salt and pepper in a glass or ceramic bowl (metal bowls will alter the taste of your dressing). Let "steep" for an hour or longer. Just before serving, whisk oil into the vinegar mixture thoroughly. Pour over salad.

This is a very affordable dressing alternative to store-bought, particularly if you have potted herbs at home like I do. I keep a kitchen garden on my apartment patio (that's another blog entry coming soon).

Good, happy eating!

THERE'S AN END (RIGHT BEFORE A BEGINNING)

2010-05-09T00:29:00.000-07:00

I took this photo while biking the MoPac trail, not too far from Eagle, Nebraska. A storm rolled in on top of us, so my son and I sought shelter in a lean-to built by Boy Scout troop 49 to wait out the front. Watching the rain, feeling the miles as a dull ache in my legs, I stared at the horizon. My son, eating canned chicken with robust zeal, told me his own Scout stories while I considered the weight of my existence.

As much as I write about life, all I really know is this: Beginnings only follow endings. I’m packing up my university apartment, ending a semester of teaching, and coming to terms with one of my kid’s decision to launch herself into a complicated life on her own. There’s a lot to do, a lot to keep me busy, and I’m feeling a bit too isolated. But this is the nature of endings; this is just how life works.

I did find an apartment, a beautiful 930 square foot craftsmen place with mahogany woodwork, double French-doors, and a refurbished galley kitchen perfect for me. Come June 1, I will live in a place less expensive but far more beautiful. I will live in my first apartment ever sought just for me. I didn’t have to choose it for its schools or neighborhood. I didn’t have to consider the number of bedrooms or the color of its carpet (kids are hell on carpeting).

Instead, I spent several days searching for the sort of place that felt like me. As an academic working with spatiality and cognition, issues of place/space intrigue me. I knew, for example, that wherever I lived I would experience some shifts in both my thinking and my self-perception so it was important to find someplace that felt at home even without furniture.

After four days, I found it. It felt so good there I didn’t want to leave. Maybe it was the French doors. Maybe it was the natural light and all the windows. Maybe it was all the greenery in the neighborhood, or the fact the landlord said, “Feel free to put plants on the balcony, to hang flowers.” Or maybe it was the fact that the kitchen was painted a beautiful shade of grey and had brand-new everything.

Whatever it was or is, I’m moving in a couple of weeks to an eight-unit brick apartment built in the 1920s that’s a short walk from my oldest daughter’s little yellow house, a grocery store, and the coolest little Mexican bakery I’ve ever seen. My familial-centered day-to-day existence is changing into a single lady life. As sad as I am about the ending, I am equally happy at the prospects of my beginning. I’m too far into the journey to turn back, and there’s some difficult stuff ahead.

I’ve wondered if I’m at the crux of my life itself …

I’ve channeled a lot of my feelings into climbing. This week, I topped out a 5.7+ with a tricky backward slant at the crux that I had been projecting, and then topped out a new 5.7 with an overhang. I’ve started working with the fingerboards, learning to “hang” because I can’t quite do a pull-up. In short, I’ve started to think of my own development as a climber instead of just being happy I could get UP at all. As one of my fellow climbers said to me, “You’ve not a noob anymore, Rogers.”

I certainly don’t feel like a noob. My oldest daughter is getting married in two weeks, and that alone can make you feel far from new. She and her fiancé are excited and happy as we plan our BBQ celebration, their trip to the courthouse for a secular wedding, and navigate their entry into the next phase of their lives. He’s 28 to her 22, but you’d never know it. They’re in love all over again, and just last month they discovered they would be parents before Christmas. They’re a couple of grinning dopes.

With moving and their marriage comes a whole lot of change. Some things will stay the same. I’ll still bike to work and back every day – no matter the weather this year. I will still shop at Open Harvest, stop in at Le Quartier - the French bakery - on my way back from Eagle on the MoPac, and take Sunday coffee at Indigo Bridge Books in the Haymarket. I’ll still go with the boys (my son and son-in-law) to the batting cages on the weekends to work out the psychological kinks. And I’ll still climb three days a week – thank goodness.

What I won’t be doing, which seems really foreign and nonsensical to me, is living with another’s needs positioned as equal to or even greater than, my own. And that, I have to admit, is an intimidating yet exciting proposition - sort of like that 5.8 on the north wall at our Rec that I have been eyeing the way a woman gives a man the once over in a crowded bar.

All I do know is that I'll be climbing to keep myself together.

NAAN SEQUITURS

2010-04-26T08:35:00.000-07:00

(PHOTO: My homemade naan on a Sunday afternoon)

Apart from developing what Professor Emeritus John Ikerd terms, “a new food ethic,” and continuing my work to engage with the Slow Food movement, I’ve been thinking of my kitchen in a whole new way.

I’m thinking my kitchen could become my personal apothecary.

Until P'UP, I was sort of an automatron eater. Everything was on autopilot, and I didn't give food much thought beyond its caloric consequences. But now, I'm turning a keen eye to my own sense of science and satisfaction. Of course my lay science is no match for those professionals in the food industry, people who use chemistry to find the “bliss point” in the foods offered to the American market (and later the global market). This “bliss point,” David Kessler asserts as a researcher and the former head of the FDA, is an issue of addiction as serious as those associated with tobacco.

It was Kessler who helped to expose the chemical constructions and additions to tobacco products that made them, quite literally, irresistible to the brain. Kessler claims that ready-made foods, snacks, and cereals are chemically designed to trigger responses in consumers’ brains, tapping their reward centers while at the same time leaving them craving more.

In his latest book, The End of Overeating (2009), Kessler explores the ways chemistry influences consumption, and the food industry’s perfect culinary cocktail of “fat, sugar, and salt” that keeps people hungering for more.

“As more sugar is added,” Kessler notes, “food becomes more pleasurable until we reach the bliss point, after which it becomes to sweet and the pleasure drops off.” Kessler claims the same is true of fat and salt, and that the “optimal combination” food actually increases appetite instead of suppressing it by falling short of this natural indicator of appetite/taste satisfaction.

In his research with others at Yale University, Kessler discovered that overweight and obese people have significantly higher response activity in the reward centers of their brains. Certain combinations of sugar, fat, and salt can increase the amount of neurotransmitters in the pleasure centers of the brain. Kessler asserts that some foods are chemically engineered to fall just short of the “bliss point” that leads to satisfaction in order to keep consumers dissatisfied, craving and eating more.

Kessler, a lawyer and professor of pediatrics, epidemiology, and biostatistics, has a reputation as a whistle-blower. His work at the Food & Drug Administration (1990-97), and his tenure at the University of California San Francisco School of Medicine involved outing practices and products that violated ethical and legal codes in society at large as well as industry. In 2007 he was dismissed from his post as dean and vice-chancellor for revealing that the dean’s office was operating in a perpetual deficit and would continue to do so. Eventually, UCSF had to publicly acknowledge that Kessler’s claims were indeed correct.

The guy seems to have the moxie to take on powerful institutions on both sides of the public and private enterprise divide, so I found myself captivated by his claims about overeating, the “bliss point,” and his research surrounding neurotransmission.

Because I’m working on a new food ethic that helps me to disconnect from corporate practices that are stripping the planet of natural resources and exploiting human lives for material gain, I decided that perhaps I had the power to do my own chemistry experiments in the kitchen. After slogging through nutrition books written by nutritionists and doctors, thumbing through health magazine articles about learning to substitute low-nutrition ingredients for high-nutrition ones, and after working with Weight Watchers premises, I feel I can testify to the following simple advice. To help rewire your taste buds (and perhaps your brain) to reach its “bliss point” in healthier ways while letting go of the salt, fat, and sugar addiction, I recommend:

1. Using vinegars (particularly rice wine vinegar) and lemon juice and soy sauce in place of or with a reduced amount of salt
2. Using natural sources like honey, coconut milk, fruit (fresh or dried), or raw sugar in place of sweeteners, processed sugars, and corn syrup
3. Increase the dietary fiber of your meals to help you feel full and to keep your body (and brain) satisfied
4. Use plant-based oils (olive, safflower, grape seed, peanut, sesame) instead of canola or corn oils, hydrogenated margarine, or butter because they contribute a flavor to foods that will naturally increase the pleasure of eating
5. Increase the spice complexity and potency of the foods you eat, including adding peppers and chiles because of the health benefits they bring to your circulatory system and metabolism

It’s not rocket science (okay, maybe it’s a little like rock science). What I’ve discovered is that many cuisines from other parts of the world, particularly the Far East, help you to make this transition. Indian and Thai recipes have helped me to rethink my own palette and to move from an overall dissatisfaction with healthier eating to a sense of profound satisfaction with it. Drawing from books such as The Healthy Low-Fat Indian Cookbook by Shehzad Husain and Manisha Kanani, Edward Espe Brown’s Tomato Blessings and Radish Teachings, and the gazillion Weight Watchers recipes offered online, I’ve come to a whole new level of epicurean experimentation.

(PHOTO: My homemade naan, raita, aloo potatoes, and shrimp balti)

There are spices in my cupboard that were, until recently, unfamiliar to me: cardamom pods, curry leaves, garam masala, fenugreek, black mustard, saffron, tamarind, and turmeric. I’ve got fresh ginger bulbs and garlic heads in a big bowl in my refrigerator. I’ve learned to make a tart, satisfying cheese from plain yogurt. I can now taste the difference between different types of chiles to understand what each could or would bring to a recipe. Before this experiment, I always just tasted the heat. I’m no longer buying salad dressings – I just make my own. And my refrigerator is becoming cold storage for my low-cost, high-taste experiments instead of a showcase for ready-made engineered foods.

In the process, I’ve learned which spices aid in digestion, promote regularity, or minimize gas. I’ve learned which spices turn up the heat in the body’s metabolic furnace, and which foods help the body to feel/sense an adequate source of potential energy. Not every recipe has been a success, but the ones that have worked well have been amazing (like those featured in the photographs here). I hope you'll consider taking on some experiments of your own, that you too will find a new food ethic that will connect you to yourself and those who help you bring your food to the table. But don't get carried away. This should never be work. As Edward Espe Brown directs, just "please enjoy your food." You know, really live instead of cruising on autopilot.

(Dis)Shelved: Part I

2010-04-12T10:14:00.001-07:00

(PHOTO: The view from camp)

“You’re going to catch a colder.” – Jonathan Safran Foer

First night:

Ten hours on the road later, I was freezing my ass off in a tent on the cusp of a limestone cliff. I had already taken a photo of the ridge across the canyon - the one that looks like it has a stone penis tip. I had already eaten a great meal, drank a few good bears, and pitched a tent with help from new friends. I had already questioned my sanity for taking on such an endeavor with so little camping experience.

I had already lost my pants.

But not in a good way.

Headlamp beaming from my forehead, I rifled through my bag, trying to find my base layers. I was shaking, laughing, and feeling as if it were going to be a long, long night. I had definitely caught a colder.

Eventually, after some not-so-minor acrobatics, I had two pairs of pants on, a hat on my head, gloves on my hands, and a cozy mummy bag zipped up around me. As I laid my head down on a tiny travel pillow, as I watched the tent walls breathe in and out with the chilled night air, I asked myself, “What in the hell am I doing here?”

And just as I dozed off, I heard a voice.

“Living.”

I faded into a deep mountain sleep, and forgot all about my valley worries.

(Dis)Shelved: Part II

2010-04-12T10:12:00.000-07:00

As I reached my group of friends at the North Bank, every muscle in my body ached. My head, though, was giving me the most trouble. Having already experienced so much just in the journey to that moment, I was unable to sift through my thoughts in order to make room for new things. Tyler was wearing one of my Rheterica t-shirts, and announced that it was well received among the gang. Janice and Lizz were ready to get their climb on. And there I was, suffering from mind melt.

(PHOTO: My first outdoor climb: "Focus and go up" by Janice)

I couldn’t get my act together. I tried. So I approached my first climb already knowing my head wasn’t there with me – I had left it somewhere on the hike. So I wasn’t able to process the encouragement, to let love fill me, or to even channel it to help me ascend. I climbed my first on-rock route feeling as if I were outside of my own body. As I reached a difficult crux, I knew I was in trouble. It’s not smart to climb when your head isn’t in the present moment – it’s just not safe. So I cut my losses, part of me feeling as if I had failed, part of me clinging to the victory of getting on the rock at all.

(PHOTO: Lizz celebrating her 30th by topping out a lead)

But I was full, of life, of love, of hope. Full with comfortable quiet, I watched and listened. I wrote more poetry vandalism on the walls of my heart – bold, declarative, and in my own colors. I didn’t need to climb today, I thought. I didn’t need anything except Whitman, maybe.

There was never any more inception than there is now,  
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,  
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,  
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now

A long time ago, when I worked for a church, I learned two things that have stuck with me since. The first is the concept of the “prayer closet” – your own private space in which to experience spiritual connections and pray. The second, was a lesson about the baptism of the heart itself, when once is washed clean not by the water offered up in iconic representations of baptismal religious practice, but by Grace itself.

(PHOTO: Amy, relaxing at North Wall)

(PHOTO: Eli in "over ...oh-oh-oh-overdrive")

Sitting among my friends, I felt awash in both grace and love. Withdrawn in my silence, I was resting in my own prayer closet. I realized, while sitting down after handing over my first climb in gratitude, that I had somehow found my path. Buddhist writer and activist Thich Nhat Hanh writes of this kind of power, this connection to spirit and Self in his book, The Art of Power (2007):

If you have some experience that this path leads in a good direction, you will have faith in your path. You are very happy that you have a path, and thus you being to have power. This power will not destroy you or the people around you. In fact, it gives you strength and energy that other people can feel. When you have faith, your eyes are bright and your steps are confident. This is power. You can generate this kind of power every moment of your daily life. It will bring you a lot of happiness (16).

(PHOTO: Ron, doing a "sweet belay" for Tommy and Tyler, soaking up the day)

Just the night before, my friend Dana Marie had told me that she had noticed what she termed a transformation. “When I met you, you were so nervous, so timid. Now I see you and it’s like you’ve changed everything. It’s really cool to see you so happy, so bright and alive.”

We were walking a path back from the outhouse, and I was smoking my last cigarette. And I knew it was my last one because I had found my path. In just a few hours at Shelf Road, I had come to see that I wanted to spend the rest of my life loving and being among my friends, and that smoking was going to separate me from them, from my family. Just the thought of losing those I love too soon made my heart ache. And that was it. And in the three days since, I haven’t craved a thing.

Except a grilled ribeye steak, but that’s a different addiction.

(PHOTO: "Hot Climbing Momma Kate O with Baby D)

Sitting on a rock with friends, watching a new mommy love her baby, made me think of my own babies back home. My next trip to Shelf will be their trip to Shelf, too. I was thinking about all the years between their birth and their adult lives, wondering if they remembered all the mom smiles I offered them, if they understood my quiet way, and if they know how much I love them, even though they no longer wear ducky pajamas. The greatest part about maternal love is the way its waves ripple out to others, reach deep into the chest and touch one's soul. Watching new mommy love is proof life is gloriously good, and sitting on that rock I wanted to reach out and hug my kids. I wanted them there with me to see the bright visions my eyes held at that moment. I wanted them to know there was nothing I regretted about our life together, nothing more I could want but their respect and love as grown adults.

And it was this moment, watching a baby, remembering my own, when I realized something in my life had changed.

When I got home last night, as I showed photos from the trip to Laura, she was expressing great interest in my discoveries. Since I began P'UP, she hasn't wanted to climb with me. She hasn't wanted to climb at all. Given all the reasons we came to climbing in the first place, this worried me. As a mom, I wondered if I had killed her teenage enthusiasm for the sport by trying it too. I wondered if we were losing touch, our common understanding of the difficulties of being a family. I wondered if I was losing her to the momentum of her own life, her own journey. And I grieved this apparent loss in my own way, in quiet hours with my journal.

(PHOTO: Adam doing what he loves)

It was Adam who brought climbing into our lives, his way of showing support for a new and difficult part of my family's journey together. In fact, if it weren't for Adam, none of the Boulder friends I have now would be friends at all. He's been more than generous, and I doubt he'll ever really understand how much this has brought to our lives. "Did Adam climb well?" Laura asked.

"Duh," I said.

"And Tyler climbed?"

"Yup."

"Those Scheers are badasses," she said. "I love them."

As she sat on my bed, her feet dangling, she smiled at me. "Hey, I'm going to bed," she said, then got up to leave. As she reached my bedroom door, she looked over her shoulder at me.

"I want to climb with you tomorrow," she said.

And I wanted to cry. The path was definitely right. I had faith again.

(Dis)Shelved: Part III

2010-04-12T09:43:00.000-07:00

(Photo: Clarita @ www.morguefile.com)

What about little microphones? What if everyone swallowed them, and they played the sounds of our hearts through little speakers, which could be in the pouches of our overalls? When you skateboarded down the street at night you could hear everyone’s heartbeat, and they could hear yours, sort of like sonar. One weird thing is, I wonder if everyone’s heart would start to beat at the same time, like how women who live together have their menstrual periods at the same time, which I know about, but don’t really want to know about. That would be so weird, except that the place in the hospital where babies are born would sound like a crystal chandelier in a houseboat, because the babies wouldn’t have had time to match up their heartbeats yet. And at the finish line of the New York City Marathon it would sound like war. – Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

As I marched up the trail to Cactus Cliffs, as my heart pushed blood through my body, I heard my mortal drum line. The beat of me, the thump, thump, thump of all the years and broken promises, of victories and defeats, of heartbreak and expansion – all of it melding and mangling a crescendo of unspeakable beauty.

I struggled to ascend the approach routes to the climbing areas. It was difficult going at times, particularly because I was alone. In the morning, I had missed the other noobs’ departure, and tagged along with a very enthusiastic group of people I didn’t know. I could have followed dear friends to their climbing spot, but I decided that for my first outdoor trip I needed some time to deal with myself, with my heart.

As I hiked to the rhythm of my own heartbeat, I thought of Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself":

I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,
 And what I assume you shall assume,  
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you

I could hear my friends’ laughter echoing, bouncing against the canyon walls. This comforted me as I plodded a beaten path and pondered the lives that had pounded down the dirt before my feet followed. I wondered what their hearts sounded like, what they thought about while making their way. When I stopped to rest, I simply listened. Breezes stirred my thoughts. The sun warmed my face. Life pulsed through me, the lightheaded journey girl, as I negotiated altitude and my physicality.

At the cliffs, I met a group of “old timers” who were climbing and hiking together as part of a yoga trip. They were celebrating retirement, and they offered me coffee from a Thermos. We talked about getting older and how life on rock seems bigger, more, and far more grounded than anyone outside of the climbing community would guess.

(PHOTO: The view from Cactus Cliffs where I sat and pondered life for awhile)

After that encouraging conversation, I stopped at a spot to take a photo of our campsite across the canyon. I couldn’t believe that I had made it that far, that I was ensconced within a pocket of rocks, looking over a gorge with a red dirt road slicing through it. Six months ago, I would never have tried to venture out this way, to see where my feet would or could carry me if I just followed the sound of my own drum. I took a moment to let my tears fall. It was a good, restorative cry.

Following the path back down the canyon, I encountered a woman sitting with two small children. Her husband was setting up a climbing route, and we talked of getting older, of writing, and her first year of college at UNL. We marveled at how small the world really was, and how Karma brought two strangers to an intersection of familiarity. She had seen my friends as they had passed through, and mentioned seeing one with a baby.

“I saw her and thought I had wasted my early year as a mother,” she said. “I saw that hot climbing momma and thought, man, I need to live my life differently.”

We exchanged contact information and talked about writing. We said we’d start a writing group for climbing women. I hope we do. I waved goodbye and pressed on, hoping to find my friends whose voices I could hear louder now, but whose bodies I couldn’t locate on the cliffs. Tired and wondering where to go next, I decided it was time to return to the campsite.

I hiked the road back to camp, unable to recognize my own song, but still thinking of Whitman:

Have you reckon'd a thousand acres much? have you reckon'd the  earth much?  
Have you practis'd so long to learn to read?  
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

I reckon’d the path, the earth, the meaning of my life. I took time to stop and look up, to listen and to feel. The breeze that caressed my skin seemed familiar, loving and kind. Pine memories of trips with my father came back to me as I looked at limestone cliffs, pondered all they contained, from geodes to history, and the stories of his gem hunts he would have told me had he been there.

As I walked, I heard the first line of a new poem. I stopped to write it down in my Moleskin book. I then stooped to put a rock in my pocket and wished my dad could see me then, standing outdoors, hiking on my own, while conjuring Whitman's poetry.

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of  all poems,  
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions  of suns left,)  
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look  through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in  books,  You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,  
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

As I hiked, I thought of the chasm that once separated my father and I. When I was a kid he didn’t understand that when my head filled with new thoughts and the silence roosted in my bones, it didn’t mean I was absent or pouting. He often misinterpreted my quiet way as a withdrawal from him, a separation. Dad was always delivering new ideas, new experiences, to me out of love. He never understood, then, that my silence was reverence for the very things he offered. I think he understands that now, or at least sees the fingerprints he left in my memories. I think he finds comfort in that now as he watches me grow.

(PHOTO: Dad, in his workshop, explaining his latest invention to me)

Hiking up the road, I wondered if there were others in my life unable to read the poetry that is my silence, the reaching in and loving that is my quietude. Sometimes I am closest to a heart when I stand furthest from it, when I seem withdrawn I’m actually cleaving to the fiercest earthbound love there is. I used to think of this as a failure on my part, some sort of fear of intimacy. What I know now, after a long cry among Cactus Cliffs, is that it’s a love unbreakable, the true north of my compass.

I encountered two of my dearest friends as I approached camp, and decided to follow them to the others among the North Bank. We waited for others to join us then started on our way. Sometimes, the only way to find your up is to go back down again.

After a full day of hiking and climbing, after feasting on a glorious buffet of visions, we returned to camp. We cooked. We ate. We laughed. Gathered around a fire, we sat together, our heartbeats pulsing in synchronized joy. I looked upon them for a very long time, trying to memorize their faces warm and the color of fire. Beneath a chandelier sky, stars burning through the black, I wasn't the only one seeping into silence. Bright eyes cast to the fire, they sat like dingledodies, fists worn from rock, and became poetry.

And I loved them for it, in my own quiet way, sitting off in my own mind.

I woke early my last day at Shelf, long before the sun tore from the ridge and warmed us. I packed up, and marveled the spiders that had sought warmth beneath my tent. I bagged up, loaded the car, and took one last walk to campsite 5 where most of my Boulder friends were just waking. We exchanged morning greetings and farewell hugs. They have become family to me, and after I turned to walk away, as I plodded down a red dirt path, I choked back the bitterness of goodbye. Every time I leave them, I feel wrenched away from love. Only the love awaiting me at home makes me strong enough to endure the separation from those fine people making their lives near the Flat Irons. Only the faintest promise of seeing them again makes it possible to go, and that is just one reason to love them even more.

On MY Shelf: Volumes and Issues

2010-04-08T07:24:00.000-07:00

With my first outdoor climbing experience just hours away, I'm feeling a bit out of sorts. I am now the owner of a 2-3 person tent, a snake bite kit (my dad insisted), a camping cup, technical clothing, loose chalk, and something my son declared essential: a "hobo tool."

(PHOTO: N.U.G.U.N.)

This may seem perfectly normal for those classified as "real" or experienced outdoorsy types, but I haven't instigated a camping trip since Def Leppard was topping the charts with songs about pouring sugar and rockets. My last camping trip was with a husband - and that trip was miserable for a variety of reasons far beyond the company, biting overnight lows, and freak snowstorm in July. Now that I think about it, all the photos from that trip were taken with a film SLR - Kodak hadn't yet released its first digital camera to the public yet.

The majority of my current climbing friends were still in diapers, I think. Maybe a few of them were eating solid foods, getting ready for kindergarten, or just discovering their wanks, with a smattering of high achievers accomplishing all three milestones, but that hardly makes me feel better. In fact, I'm feeling rather old at the moment, perhaps too hold to be jumping into a car and embarking on a climbing road trip.

One of the recurring themes to P'UP, an undercurrent I don't always explore, is one of permission. I find myself often pondering if I'm allowed to make these changes, allowed to embark on such a journey, yet unable to name exactly who it is in charge. As a pro-woman writer and sometimes feminist, this just pisses me off. As an academic, I find it interesting that in the absence of authority (like that ex-husband), I create an imaginary gatekeeper.

What the hell is that all about?

Well, as someone who just figured out how to separate her fork and knife, use the corkscrew, and then lock them all together again, I can only assert this fundamental truth: I'm a nattering nabob of negativity. I traffic shame and guilt like a Columbian cartel moves narcotics. As Glenn Frey sings, "it's a losing proposition/but one you can't refuse" - yeah - on occasion I get the Smuggler's Blues, but mostly I just wander about feeling as if I'm knee-deep in nickel bag of self-loathing.

And yeah, it's skunky.

All the same, I feel as though I'm on the cusp of the abyss, something I've avoided most of my life until now.

Though this project has been about learning to climb, it has become so much more. As I've learned the top ropes, I've also learned a lot about living - the living I wasn't doing. I've spent far too much of my life being afraid; afraid to disappoint, afraid to fail, and afraid of the consequences of my own decisions. So I existed on auto-pilot, turning over my right to self-define and make decisions over to others. Climbing has taught me to knock that off, to let that go. You can't climb well without owning up to your physical and mental limitations. You can't climb well if you're not fully present in the task at hands (and feet).

And damnit, P'UP has made me want to climb well. It's not enough to get up. You have to BE up, too. So as I learn about climbing, I also learn about myself. I discover things I didn't know I lost, or things I never realized I already had. Like today, when I showed up at the wall for one last practice session and had to work with a belay I don't know well. I discovered that my lack of knowing promoted an uncertainty - unrecognized consciously at first - that resulted in timid moves and anxiety I haven't felt since my first climb.

Though I completed two routes without incident, I couldn't approach my projects - a 5.8, 5.7+, and a new 5.7 hung earlier this week - with the same degree of reluctant confidence I experience when working with my two favorite belays and friends. What this signified to me was that I have been working on building intimacy and trust within my friendships through climbing - and that realization made me grin like a dope.

I don't think I will ever, in one paragraph or even one post, fully articulate everything my abusive partners stole from me or what I gave away. I can only point to these discoveries day by day, post by post, and write toward some sense of self-actualization and appreciation. Since leaving my marriage and embarking on my new life, I've struggled to trust, to take people as they present themselves, and to allow myself the same opportunity. It's difficult to trust yourself after a decision to love someone turns out to be the worst decision you could make, the most unhealthy thing for you and your children. I know that I lost my sense of self-trust and that climbing is helping me to reclaim it.

I think I may be the quintessential late bloomer, but that's okay. I'd rather re-learn these lessons now, so I can rewrite the scripts that limit both my sense of living and my self-confidence. Though I still feel old, and though I still feel out of place sometimes, I think even this is a process worth exploring. Like a tough climb, life is a project, too. Even in my mom jeans.

ON MY SHELF: PART ONE

2010-04-03T20:26:00.000-07:00

In the final days of preparation for my first outdoor climbing trip, I’m spending my time thinking about things I’d never thought I care about. Today, I stood in the outdoor section at a local store, wondering if I needed to buy a snakebite kit. And I’m not talking about Tabasco, tequila, and whiskey in a shot glass. In the end, I decided not to buy the kit – I’ll take my chances – but there’s a part of me that wants one. It’s an Indiana Jones sort of thing, proof you’re one of those people who goes out seeking adventure, but not actually seeking snakes.

I did get batteries for my headlamp, round up a tent, and put together the sort of wilderness first aid kit worthy of a Boy Scout merit badge. It’s not the sort of kit that anticipates major injuries, but it’s pretty spiffy. Scrapes, splinters, bug bites, hangovers, allergies, sunburn, and inflammation don’t stand a chance against yours truly.

I’ve assembled a wardrobe I think will suffice for a weekend trip, layers of wicking inner and outer layers, a technical coat and intermediate fleece, and some not-so-fashionable headgear. I’m borrowing a sleeping bag and pad this trip, but both are on my list of “someday” purchases. Because this trip is a “car camping” sort of excursion, I’m not worrying about a backpack. That too, I think, will have to wait until the fall when they go on sale.

My nutritional needs for the trip are proving more difficult to anticipate and prepare for, but I’m working on it. I’ve got a recipe for breakfast/energy bars in the works, one that is low-fat but high in protein and carbohydrates to aid in muscle recovery after a day of climbing and mucking about. Nuts and legumes are on the list, too, as well as fresh fruit and vegetables. Unlike most, I can’t use camping as an excuse to munch down on the hotdogs (the international mystery meat) and s’mores.

When I was a kid, my dad used to take us camping just so he could cook fancy, interesting fare. I remember driving up above Estes Park one summer, just so he could cook us beef fillets and sautéed mushrooms, asparagus tips with lemon-butter, and grilled tomatoes. We went to bed that night with full bellies, listening to the creek and evening bugs, our lungs full of fine mountain air. That night stands out as one of the best I had as a kid.

Dad was the sort of camping guy who got up early, started the fire, put a speckled pot of coffee on the grate, and cooked breakfast. Bacon and eggs, I think, will always remind me of those trips with him. There’s a part of me that wants to attempt his culinary role this trip, to be the one who cooks pounds of bacon while sipping coffee so strong the grounds stick in your teeth, but I’m resisting that temptation.

I already know, however, that no matter how awesome my energy bars turn out to be, they won’t compare to crisp bacon and flapjacks on a chilly camping morning.

(Photo: My son and my dad, with their dirt experiments)

During the difficult years, when I was a teenager, I lost interest in camping or anything else my dad liked. And for whatever reason, I never took up camping again until now. I’ve been thinking about that today as I’ve prepared for my trip to Shelf. Dad and his wife will be camping that weekend, too, somewhere near the Wyoming and Colorado border. That seems fitting, in some ways.

Sorting out my gear today, laying out my stuff on the livingroom floor, I thought about how much my kids missed out on when they were little. We couldn’t do things that our controller/father figure found upsetting, and anything he couldn’t control upset him. So we didn’t pile into a car and head out for adventure. That would have lead to work (on his part), mess (on theirs), and fun (he was allergic).

We didn’t do much of anything, actually. No sports (he never wanted to sacrifice Saturday mornings to kids’ soccer games). No vacations (though we did drive to Wyoming once –for a funeral). He preferred to watch life pass us all by on television. The road trips came later, after the divorce, when I was shuttling kids back and forth from summer visitations.

That’s when we learned how much fun we could have on the road. It would be years and years later until Jack Kerouac would teach us why.

And maybe this is just a mom thing, but there’s a part of me that feels guilty as I pack up. P’UP has been teaching me a lot about myself, and this week I’m learning that the past is never past us – it lingers. The kids are grown, and none of them want to go with me. I shouldn’t feel guilty at all. Yet I do.

All the same, I’m excited and feeling free to pursue my own goals. After years of maternal sacrifices, that alone presents a myriad of emotional booby traps to navigate. And there’s something else I’ve realized. My own academic use of “inquiry notebooks,” the little black books I carry around, scribble in, throw quotes and poetry into are related in some ways to the notebook of the senior Dr. Jones in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.

I watched that film with my dad years ago, and I remember being intrigued by the notebook in it, the one they use to unlock all the secrets to their journey.

Looking at my growing collection of notebooks, I’m wondering what, if any, journeys my kids will find unlocked years from now. I think of the books I’ve made and given away, and wonder if they will someday lead to a metaphorical quest for a covenant or challis. In some ways, this very blog is like one of those notebooks …

"History is never past" … it lingers. It’s in the pages of my books, the ink, the midnight thoughts and ponderings. As I prepare for my next adventure, I wonder what kind of history will unfold, what kind of stories will reveal themselves. Which is, I suppose, why the trip is worth taking even before it has begun.

CLIMBING AND PEDAGOGY

2010-04-02T20:29:00.000-07:00

The Physics of Rock Climbing from Christian Fracchia on Vimeo.

Last semester, while teaching a "Writing and Communities" course, I offered extra credit to students who ventured out and tried to join or experience a community far outside their comfort zones. I held up the climbing community at UNL as an example, and four of my students joined me for their first climbing experience at the Rec. One student spent another two weeks exploring climbing as a sport, and wrote her final project on what it was like to join the group.

I've come to use climbing as a metaphor for writing. I use it to teach patience, experimentation, process, and the use of tools. Drawing connections between the climbing hardware and the "rules of writing," including the dreaded grammar and spelling, helped students to see both as utilitarian devices instead of skills one was either "good" or "bad" at using. I also used the metaphor of a climber with a belay as an example of academic writing, when one scales an idea with the safety of others down below. In the case of scholarly work, thinking of citable sources as those keeping one safe or supporting one's climb, is a useful device. One can't just write one's ideas -one must always "join a larger academic conversation." No one gets to "free solo" a research paper.

But the most useful metaphorical use of climbing has been in the area of process and its focus. Teaching students to think one move at a time is important when working with inquiry, and I've found that climbing provides an embodied example that moves students from the abstract to the physical. Next semester, I'm hoping to be able to bring my entire class to the wall at least once in a semester. We'll see.

In the above video, two physics instructors use climbing to teach their introductory course. Apart from wondering if climbing attracts a disproportional amount of math geeks to its folds, I'm wondering who else uses climbing to teach bigger, more important lessons that will matter to students outside of the classroom.

I know Outward Bound uses climbing in some of its courses, and I know places like the Joshua Tree Rock Climbing School offer curricula for one-day clinics to four-day camps. But to use climbing and the outdoors as a basis for in-class curricula, well, that's a little harder to find. And it's too bad, if you ask me.

In the No Child Left Behind era, students are getting much time or money for field trips, particularly the kind of trips that take students out into the real world to experience self-focused challenges. Standardization of education, which is what high-stakes tests like those required by NCLB foster, means students' scores are comparative and leave little room for an emphasis on self-assessment and improvement.

Climbing, as a sport, offers the ability to self-test within a community of others who are putting themselves through tough lessons of patience, skill, and mental agility. In my experience with P'UP, I've learned amazing lessons:

1. Progress is an accumulation of smaller, incremental steps toward a larger goal

2. Success is not defined by the end result - finishing the climb - but often measured in a single move, particularly when struggling to master a new set of skills

3. Projecting a route is a physical manifestation of inquiry itself. When one attempts but doesn't necessarily solve, a problem on the first attempt there is much to be learned. On-sighting, killing a route at first go, doesn't teach a new lesson. It only indicates that previous learning has occurred

4. Limits are temporary obstacles that provide opportunities to learn more about yourself and your purposes

5. As Robert Frost writes, "The only way over is through." This is particularly true of the crux of a climb, or any problem worth solving.

6. One shouldn't get too wrapped up in the numbers. A 5.6 can push you around, no matter how many other "higher" or "tougher" routes you've successfully climbed. All problems are contextual.

These seem like pretty important discoveries to me. I'd love to teach in a world that didn't relegate teaching and learning to something that only happens in the constructed walls of a classroom. And maybe someday, I'll get to be one of those professors who can take students out into the real world, harness them in, and show them what they can do.

UNDER MY SKIN

2010-04-01T23:22:00.001-07:00

(Photo: Still from "Stone Cold")

There’s a down side to Project Up, a dirty little secret I’ve been keeping. In the interest of full disclosure, and with a nod to the patriarchal notion of confession being good for the soul, I’ve decided to come clean.

With all the uplifting news, the epicurean adventure, and the steady progress as a climber and a human being, there’s been a dark reality following me. Like a shadow hemmed to the soles of my feet, it lurks behind me everywhere I go. And it’s a truth too horrifying to look at, like the Medusa demon of chthonic female monsters capable of turning even the bravest into stone.

Like all freaks of nature, they’re proof one should never encourage incestual relations, prima facie evidence that inbreeding, even among the gods, is never a good idea. Among women it’s a truth so horrifying we’ll spend millions of dollars each year on arming against it, as we build an arsenal of creams, serums, and surgical interventions.

That’s right. I’m talking about stretch marks. And I’ve got ‘em. IN MY ARMPITS.

(Photo: "Matisse Circle" of The Full Body Project by Leonard Nimoy - yeah - the Spock guy)

One of the cool parts of being a Chubs McBigPants is that your face won't wrinkle. It’s easy to maintain youthful-looking facial beauty when you can feel your face stretch every time you blink. Trust me. However, rapid weight gain causes a great deal of stress on skin from the neck down. Sometimes, the stress goes unnoticed – not everyone develops stretch marks at the same rate, and not everyone develops the telltale signs of redness and swelling. So for some people, it’s only after they lose weight that they begin to see the exterior damage done to their bodies.

New stretch marks are often deep in color, and usually red or even purple. They are, technically, scars. When the elastic fibers in the middle layer of the skin, the dermis, break down stretch marks appear. Since collagen (more specifically, “collagen VII) holds the dermis layer together, the best “cure” for these dermatological injustices is really a matter of prevention. Vitamins A, C, and D are critical building blocks for collagen and should be consumed through sensible eating (citrus fruits, vegetables like broccoli, and dairy products) with some “help” from a vitamin supplement. Keeping properly hydrated all day, instead of just during workouts, is also believed to help protect your skin, too.

There are about 20 types of collagen (proteins) in the human body, incidentally, and they do amazing things to your soft tissues, ligaments, tendons, and even your lungs. Bones benefit from collagen I, so those concerned with preventing osteoporosis should care about vitamin A, C, and D levels even if their skin is “flawless.” The womb, stomach, heart membranes, and your eyes – all of these need healthy levels of collagen in its various types to function properly.

As far as collagen VII and your skin go, nutrition is more important than superficial treatment. Though topical creams and lotions containing A, C, and D vitamins are believed to be helpful in keeping the skin supple, they are by no means as powerful as good eating habits.

Unfortunately, one often doesn’t see evidence of dermis layer damage until its too late. And for some of us, the scars don’t appear until after the burden on the skin is removed. That’s what has happened to me. Old marks I couldn’t see before are now visible. For me, even faded stretch marks are rather painful to look at because the skin itself is clearly looser, and evidence that firming up isn’t going to happen as quickly as I’d like it to – if at all.

For a lot of people working on healthier lifestyles, this evidence isn’t easy to look at or accept. It can make one feel defeated, especially if one had any hope of feeling more aesthetically beautiful, or comfortable in one’s own skin, even when naked. The most common surgery post weight loss is the tummy tuck done to remove excess skin after prolonged periods of obesity. Surgeons literally pull, cut, and sew back together the dermis layer to remove the excess, and the surgery itself costs between $6000 and $20,000.

Surgeries to remove excess skin from the arms and legs, however, leave mighty scars and are recommended only to those who have been morbidly obese, have skin rashes, infections, or problems due to friction and moisture problems, and are deemed unlikely to regain weight by a responsible surgeon. Recovery time for all of these surgeries is considerable, and there are substantial surgical risks. And if you ask me, they're horrifying.

Yet the struggle to be fit, to take care of yourself, can feel all the more defeating once weight begins to fall off. Looking in the mirror naked, gazing at your stomach and seeing what appears to be a frowning, one-eyed bulldog staring back at you, doesn’t do a lot for one’s self esteem. My own bellybutton seems to be perpetually disappointed and depressed – it’s like a downturned mouth. And there’s a part of me fearing that after all is said and done, after I’ve reached my weight-loss and fitness goals, I’ll look like I’m wearing a skin suit that’s two or three sizes too big.

I know this could, on some level, seem like a vain, superficial concern. But beauty really isn’t skin deep. It goes far deeper into the psyche than one would hope. Feelings of acceptance, purpose, future, and hope are often located within one’s body image and self-perception. The best thing I can think of to assuage my fear is to keep climbing, and follow this up with a healthy dose of patience with my physical self.

I’ve been projecting a couple of 5.7 routes, fiddling with the first three problems of a 5.8, and getting my butt kicked by a 5.7+ that has a slight overhang. I’m getting better at the footwork required to get up and over that damn thing, but I’m discovering that keeping good arm position as I do that work is burning up my upper body. I’m not pulling myself up, mind you, just trying to maintain the right amount of upper body tension to encourage progression of my foot positions.

I know I’m making progress. Some things are getting easier, for both my body and my mind. However, I’ve reached a difficult place as a climber, when the mind is willing but the flesh is weak. Though I have on-sight victories of every 5.6 set at the Rec in the last six weeks, I’m (sometimes quite literally) beating the hell out of myself on 5.7 routes the better climbers – my heroes - use for warm-ups.

As Kermit the Frog sings, “It ain’t easy being green.” And I’m very much so. I’m six months into what I hope is a life-long relationship with climbing, something I try to remind myself every time I feel beaten by the wall. I so desperately want to transition to the next level, to feel as though I’m making my way and holding my own. I’ve got “Newbie Fatigue” big time, when the newness and excitement for the sport can no longer eclipse its difficulties.

This isn’t about earning other climbers’ respect, either. I get a lot of support from the climbing community to which I belong. Admittedly, some of it is awkward like the standard comment, “I wish my mom would try climbing” and my personal favorite, “Your like our own Biggest Loser.” But even the awkward comments are encouraging, earnest, and sincere so I’m lucky, actually, to have people in my life who are as excited about my project as I am.

But as I’ve reached a few fitness goals, I’ve also reached the crux of my dermatological shame and a major hiccup in self-perception. Though I am more confident and comfortable with myself, and though I celebrate my climbing victories with great joy, there are times when I feel I’ve completely stepped outside myself. Who is this woman? Who am I now that I’ve decided to take better care of myself and try new things? Who am I when I’m hanging above the ground, resting my arms before giving a problem another go?

I don’t always recognize her, this woman I’m becoming. I suspect this is what really gets under my skin about those stretch marks – they’re inarguable evidence that big changes are going on in my life. They’re also evidence of just how far I let myself go, a truth I can’t deny. This isn’t existential navel-gazing, either. I can’t look my navel – it’s angry.

I suppose, if I aim my critical eyes at myself, I’m just burdened by the weight of process, and feeling a bit overwhelmed by change. At least I know this journey is a one-way trip. There’s no going back, even if my body leaves its own map, the scars that show where I’ve been.

SHE AIN'T HEAVY

2010-03-29T16:43:00.000-07:00

Well, it's happened. I met the second Weight Watchers target loss goal. After climbing at the BRC and hanging out with my friends in Boulder, it seems I've lost 7 percent of my starting body weight. To celebrate, I bought a pair of "boyfriend capri pants" (whose boyfriend, incidentally, wears capri pants?) from American Eagle, just to see my kid's startled expression (file that under, "OMG, My mom's buying pants at MY store? WTF?").

I had a slow day of climbing today - my foot is giving me some trouble. But I finally topped out a route I was projecting, and figured out another segment of a 5.7+ that has been kicking my ass. So technically, it was a good day. I'll be back at it tomorrow, of course, because the trip to Shelf Road looms like a glorious sun about to burst from the morning horizon.

I've lost inches off my upper arms, inches off my thighs, four inches off my waist, and five inches off my bust (a humble beginning if you ask me. I was bestowed with certain mammary gifts that have been a pendulous burden for years). And this month's culinary adventures begin in India, thanks to a cookbook I bought in Colorado. I've been working with foods I used to reserve for the "Eew Gross" category, like plain yogurt and spinach, and learning to work with whole spices. I've even made my own curry paste. It's a whole new world odor, man. Recipes will be posted soon.

I'll be heading back to the wall on Tuesday for a more rigorous session. I've learned that I have to have slow climbing days between the "big" ones to give myself time to recover from whatever advances I make. I'm dropping Old Blue (my trusty bicycle) off for its spring tune up today, climbing, and then going to yoga class. If anyone had told me two years ago that I'd be so active, that I'd be so engaged with both the world and my physical self, I would have laughed before cramming a donut down my gullet. Yet here I am, with a goofy grin on my face, looking forward to the workout.

And because I'm so darn happy, I've been working like a maniac. I finished a cartoon last night and worked on a paper. I met with my online writing group in preparation for the Rhetoric Society of America conference at the end of May in Minneapolis, and started working on yet another journal article. A dear friend hooked me up with some great music by Angus and Julia Stone, so I'll end this post with a video from their first album. It's a great graphic piece, and I love it.

SMALL THINGS

2010-03-25T09:04:00.000-07:00

(PHOTO: Urban Climber Magazine)

My first trip to the BRC was a rough one. That was two years ago, on a trip I had taken to help my daughter after some intense and unjust drama. My second visit to the BRC was on the day I had my first car accident after I learned one of my favorite professors had killed himself. I can't say that trip was a good one. I was in bad shape, mentally and physically. While my friends and daughter climbed, I sat in an alcove, tucked into a hard plastic chair, feeling as if I were out of place, out of sorts, and out of hope.

I remember crying in that chair, just sitting there and watching climbers, feeling as if life had violently passed me by like an 18 wheeler hauling hogs across I-80. I felt small, flattened out by tons of trucking life that had rolled me over and left me for dead among the debris of an unconscious culture. Feeling crucified to a barbwire fence like a paper bag pushed roadside by unrelenting wind, dying among the fast food trash and repulsed by my own malodorous stench of mental decay, I wept.

My tears weren't caused by self-pity or profound sadness. They were simply evidence that I had somehow, in the years between my misspent youth and my present, completely lost sight and sense of who I was, or who I could be. Looking back across my journals, I know that Project Up was born then, in the back room of my cerebral house, as I sat at the BRC.

Watching lithe figures scale the wall, listening to laughter and camaraderie, a tiny voice almost unrecognizable as my inner wisdom, cried out, "I want that."

I looked down at my writing hands and my corpulence, the excess weight I've carried like a cross in supreme maternal martyrdom, and made a promise to myself. "Someday," I whispered. "Someday."

In the year and a half between that moment and the formal beginning of P'UP, I made small steps - literally. I started walking to work, walking from work, walking at the gym, and walking on the weekends. I went through two pairs of sneakers in that year. Then I started riding my bike everywhere - no matter the weather. My car collected dust on its finish. It was as unused as my potential, I think, and became an icon of my success. Looking down at it from the balcony of my apartment, seeing the grit and the neglect, I was deeply satisfied.

By the time this project began in a formal sense, I had already shed a few pounds (and complexes). So when I returned to the BRC this month, armed with my harness and shoes, I already felt I had accomplished something. As I passed that plastic chair and made my way to my first route I thought about my first and second visits and smiled.

They say, "the third time's a charm." This was certainly true for me. The BRC staff welcomed me, gave me a belay test, and unlike the staff at Boulders Gym in Madison, WI, treated me like a climber. I shambled off, tied in, and did my best. The first day, I didn't complete a route. And I didn't care. When I had finished top-rope experimentation, I headed to the bouldering cave and spent a good hour working out my unease, my fear of re-injuring my foot, and in the process realized that I had reached a someday.

That night, spent and sleeping a contented sleep, every muscle in my arms and chest cramped. I woke face down, clinging to a pillow and sheets as if I were hanging onto a granite face for dear life. Despite the pain, I laughed. I marveled my cramped hands in the blue light, waiting for my muscles to relax, and wondered if climbing would ever stop making me feel as if I were finally living a real life.

Before leaving my dearest friends in Boulder, we returned to climb at the BRC. I topped two 5.7 routes, bailed on two others, and spent the night loving my friends in ways I hadn't before. I was really with them, enjoying their climbing as much as my own, and finding it impossible to separate my love of climbing from my love for them. I wasn't stuck upstairs in the kiddie room. I wasn't sitting in a bucket chair, thinking about someday. I was standing among them, listening and loving, tingling with electric joy.

My foot eventually began to ache, a deep in the bone discomfort that ended my climbing. So I sat, I watched. I thought about our upcoming trip to Shelf Road and wondered what else my friends would teach me about life, climbing, and love. There was a pot of beef stew waiting for us at the house, just another of my love offerings I give them because they have been so good to me. I looked forward to our feast, our laughter, even as I sat in silence.

As they climbed, I eventually returned to that plastic chair. I sat there, thinking of the last two years and all I had managed to accomplish. I sat, wishing my professor had experienced this joy just once before he gave up and exited our life with such startling finality I still haven't caught my breath. I rubbed my foot, smiling. I thought about the future, smiling. I thought about how much I love my Boulder friends, how much they mean to me, smiling.

And at the end of the night, I stood and walked out proudly with the ache of small things in my heart, knowing without the little things, and without my friends, I would never have had the courage or the need to get UP. Without their faith in me, I would never have become a believer. Without their encouragement, I would never have encouraged myself. How can one ever repay such debt? How can one ever express this kind of love, this kind of appreciation? How do you thank someone for giving you a reason to reclaim your life?

I have no idea, but I hope to spend the rest of my life trying.

DIGIPROSE

2010-03-15T22:51:00.000-07:00

They say a photo is worth a thousand words, but I think this photo's worth just one.

My presentation in Washington D.C. for the Split This Rock Poetry Festival was a good one with about thirty participants in just our workshop - far more than I would normally meet in a typical conference. We filled the Thurgood Marshall Center, and the poets I met were wonderful people and receptive to the return to poetry as an embodied process instead of a collection of metaphors and fancy language. The Washington Post did a write-up about the festival, and the reporter did a wonderful job capturing the magic the festival represents. There were a lot of famous poets floating about - and I felt honored just to be there.

As I worked on my presentation in the hours before taking the D.C. Metro, I thought about the upcoming trip to Shelf Road. I don't think I would have had the courage to do the work I did in D.C. without all the personal growth that has come from climbing. I certainly wouldn't have shambled about D.C. like a dingledodie in a Vagina USA t-shirt. So that's something, right?

TOAST TO MY BOAST

2010-03-10T01:03:00.000-08:00

I finally on-sighted a route - "Pinky Gotta Brain" (figures) - at the UNL Rec wall tonight. I should have been home packing and preparing for my upcoming trip to Washington D.C. - I should have been doing a lot of things. Instead, I was hanging out at the climbing wall, working on my routes, and trying to rebuild my confidence. In just over an hour I'll be on the road to the Omaha airport, and though it's 3:05 a.m., I'm sitting in front of my computer with a dopey grin on my face. God, I love climbing.

If I'm not doing it, I'm thinking about it. If I'm not thinking about it or doing it, I'm writing about it. If I'm not writing about it, doing it, thinking it, then I'm walking the path to and from work counting the hours until I get to climb again. After sitting it out for two and a half months, I'm willing to try damn near anything on the wall - I feel the transition to 5.8 and 5.9 routes is on my horizon.

This thought is enough to make me giddy. I'd sport wood if I could, but that would require a different sort of harness bought at one of those neon-lit stores hocking silicone fantasies of varying girths. Chicka-chicka-bow-wow.

My suitcase is packed. I've got poems locked and loaded. My presentation materials for my panel at Split This Rock are ready, too. I'm sure I'll love D.C., but I'll be counting the days until I'm climbing again. Expect a post from the road ... I'll be on it, wacked like Kerouac ... movin' toward somethin' man, somethin'.

FAMILY TIES

2010-03-04T22:06:00.001-08:00

(PHOTO: E.F.R. tying in B-rad)

Sharing my enthusiasm for climbing is the best part of P’UP, the best part of climbing itself. Today was one of those damn fine climbing days, mostly because I brought Brad, my future son-in-law, to the wall. While we tied in, my daughter Christina snapped off some photos before heading upstairs to run her miles on the treadmill.

She’s not ready, she says, to try climbing again but I think B-rad and I will win her over eventually. That’s our sinister plan, anyway.

B-rad just moved back to Lincoln from Milwaukee, and he’s already caught the climbing bug, that viral infection that makes you want to part with your hard-earned cash to buy equipment, chalk, and the most expensive shoes you’ll ever wear for just one purpose. It’s only a matter of time before he’s hanging out at Moose’s Tooth, or surfing the Web for hot deals on climbing gear, otherwise known as "rock porn."

(PHOTO: B-rad, a.k.a. "Slim," reaching the top of the 5.6)

The best part: B-rad’s a natural climber. He on-sighted all the routes he tried, including the 5.7 on the incline, “Jews for Jesus” (I don't name these routes, by the way) and the 5.6 “11 Year Hiatus” (named after, I'm guessing, the term for a break in geographical strata, usually measured by stratagraphists in hiatus "years"). Both routes challenged me, but B-rad knocked ‘em out and tonight was just his second climbing adventure. His climbing virginity was handed over to the gods in Madison, Wisconsin the night I broke my foot last year. So I’m thinking he’ll be reaching that 5.9 transition in the near future.

(PHOTO: B-rad, clearly enjoying his climbing night)

(PHOTO: E.F.R. working the 5.7 "Jews for Jesus")

I had a few victories tonight, myself. I nearly on-sighted that 5.7 on the incline, and this made me feel really good about both my climbing and my healing foot. I made it up and over the arch without much effort, and felt as if my body was beginning to develop a sense of climbing intuition. My moves didn’t feel forced or negotiated until I hit what I considered the crux of the route – and this nearly brought tears to my googly eyes.

(PHOTO: E.F.R. sweatin' after the "11 Year Hiatus")

I’ve also lost my self-consciousness, thankfully, and no longer feel as if I’m wasting a belay’s time if I have to take a moment to collect my thoughts or rest before pressing on. This might have something to do with the fact I’ve come down two dress sizes since joining Weight Watchers, and have brought my BMI down nearly 3 points in just three weeks.

Or, it could just be that confidence comes with practice. The true origin of this progress matters not to me. It’s the climbing that feeds my soul, so I’m even more excited about the upcoming trip to Shelf Road than I was last week. With just over a month to train, I’m hopeful to be confident in my attempts at more difficult routes before April 10.

(PHOTO: E.F.R. checking to see if her feet were still there)

Considering the week I’ve had, one with all kinds of unexpected difficulties and challenges, tonight felt all the more special. As I sit here, listening to Tom Petty and counting my blessings, I’m thinking climbing might be the best thing I’ve ever done for myself. Whatever wrongs life tosses at me are righted the moment I take hold of the wall, the moment I’m off the ground. As Tom Petty sings, “I’m learning to fly, but I ain’t got no wings” and I’m taking life one move at a time.

FASHIONISTA OF THE UPPER RANGE

2010-02-27T12:03:00.001-08:00

I’ve been told it takes time (and money) to build the proper trekking trousseau, so in preparation for my first outdoor climbing trip to Colorado’s Shelf Road in April I’m working on assembling my collection of clothing and gear. I’ve spent a fair amount of time on Craig’s List, SteepandCheap.com, and my favorite site, Campmor.

For my first round of purchases, I decided to buy things that would be worth the expenditure even if I didn’t enjoy climbing outdoors in the unpredictable early spring. I focused on base and under layers, like underwear and mid-layer fleeces mostly because Campmor was having an unbelievable sale.

When considering base and under layers, there are a few words that are important to keep in mind: “wicking,” “quick-drying,” “lightweight” and my personal favorite, “breathable.” It’s also important to choose materials that claim to be “odor-resistant” because you’re going to be wearing this stuff for days on end and you don’t want to become the human equivalent to aged cheese.

(PHOTO: Recipe Czar)

After all, it’s hard to pick up a hot outdoorsman if you smell like the sort of thing a French chef would serve to cleanse a diner’s palette after six courses.

EXOFFICIO’s product slogan, “17 Countries. 6 weeks. And one pair of underwear” seemed more like the tagline for a new horror flick than a sales point to me, the pasty urbanite. So I bought two pairs, one to wear while the other pair (newly washed) dries – still scary – but rather sensible for the packer/camper worried about gear weight.

I also ordered a set of Terramar “Body-Sensors” helix lightweight 1.0 base layers, a shirt and pants. Campor’s sale was deliciously good, and I spent less on these two specialty products than I would have on any of the lesser options available at discount stores like Target. The winter has been rather grueling here in Nebraska, so I could easily justify this purchase.

Campor’s micro-fleece mid layers, also on sale, completed my order. My total investment in warmth and “breathability” was less than $50, and I eagerly awaited my order’s arrival mostly because I’ve been freezing my ass off now that I’ve been walking everywhere. My car’s transmission is out of commission, and I’ve been walking like Jesus or relying on public transportation. It sucks to be without personal transportation, particularly when the temperatures are hovering in the lower 20s and upper teens, but I will survive.

I waited for my order the way I wait for most things delivered by post: eagerly. My postal carrier is a bald and buff sort of dude, and looks a bit like Mr. Clean. He rolls the sleeves of his uniform up so everyone can see the tribal tattoos on both of his biceps. I forgive him this cliché, of course, because he’s the only man I’ve ever seen who can make uniform pants live up to the USPS creed:

“… And neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night, nor the winds of change, nor a nation challenged, will stay us from the swift completion of our appointed rounds. Ever [while looking damn fine in our pants]” (emphasis mine).

My rather pedestrian fantasy mailman (fitting, of course, because I am a devout pedestrian) aside, my daily thoughts often wandered to the status of my delivery. Then one fine day, I scaled the stairs to my apartment and knew my Campmor box had been delivered. I could smell Mr. Clean’s Axe cologne lingering in the hallway.

I tore into that Campmor box as if it were tiramisu from Vincenzo’s. I felt a little guilty, a little naughty, but that didn’t stop me. The EXOFFICIO slogan was printed right on the package. The Terramar base layers were unbelievably light, true to size, and they smelled of science. And math. Lots of math. Campmor’s fleece products were also true to their size charts. Everything fit, and I danced around the apartment wearing all of it at once because that’s just the kind of dork I am.

You see, six weeks ago, none of those purchases would have fit. I’m pleased to report that I have finally graduated to regular sizes – my days of shopping at “plus size” stores appear to be over. To celebrate, I decided it was time to put these new purchases to the test today.

A half-mile into my morning two-mile walk, my “breathable” underpants were wheezing like an asthmatic in a Cuban humidor. Last I checked there’s no such thing as the SINGULAIR vaginal inhaler, so I marched my huffin’ and puffin’ panties onward ignoring the rasp and gurgle as a Santa Ana sort of breeze wafted through my gorge.

I must admit, however, that the breathability was worth the cost of purchase. EXOFFICIO panties don’t chaff, are true to their size chart, and provide able legroom for strenuous exercise. The Terramar base layers were fantastic, far better than other silk-style base layers I’ve owned over the years. Not only did they fit perfectly under a pair of jeans, they didn’t bunch beneath my arms or around my legs even as I marched onward. The Campmore micro-fleece feels a bit like Velcro on the outside, but that’s a good thing. It connected to the lined jacket I wore, which helped me to forget just how many layers it takes to comfortably spend an hour walking on a cold morning.

Overall, I consider my first additions to my trousseau wonderful. Choosing my outer layers is proving more difficult, particularly because I’ve never ventured into the “great outdoors” – so I’m reading reviews and trying to take advantage of end-of-season bargains. Sometimes it’s difficult to find L or XL sizes during this time of year, but I’m hopeful.

But mostly, I’m just thankful. Not only am I alive and breathing, my underpants are breathing with me.

FEBRUARY P'UP RECIPES

2010-02-22T13:43:00.000-08:00

Just one of the troubles with dieting – the temporary restraint approach to food in order to lose weight – is that it is perceived and approached as temporary. People who are on diets, too, transfer their personal authority over nutrition to the foods themselves. In other words, when you’re on a diet, you’re working for food instead of making food work for you.

I’ve known dieters who sacrifice and go hungry all day, head to gym, and often say that they’re working out in order to have a couple of teaspoons of mayonnaise on a sandwich or cream in their morning coffee. They keep spreadsheets in their heads, tracking income (calories) and outgo (exercise). Food choices are often limited to low-calorie, and often low-nutrition foods such as prepackaged “low fat” or “reduced calorie” frozen meals.

The thing is, food isn’t supposed to be something you work to enjoy. I’m afraid that’s a rather capitalist view of something so sustaining, so important, as one’s nutrition.

A better approach, one that is informing and shaping my project work with P’UP, is treating food like fuel – a necessary and important additive that keeps the miraculous human machine functioning at its optimal level. Good fuel, the sort of high-octane, nutritionally sound cuisine doesn’t have to be tasteless, boring, or even “diet.” In fact, the more you pursue taste and pleasure in tandem with high nutrition foods, the happier you will become while making a long-lasting lifestyle change.

I’m offering up three recipes this month, food choices that have made a difference in both my energy and culinary balances. This first recipe is a low-calorie but highly nutritious lunch option, and it’s very affordable.

Moving from culinary boredom to epicurean happiness is what these recipes are all about. Enjoy!

TEBOULEH

Combine in a medium bowl and let sit for at least an hour:

1 and 1/3 cups bulgur wheat
Two cups boiling water

Chop and then place in a large bowl:

1 bunch cilantro
1 large cucumber (seedy/sticky center removed)
1 medium purple onion (seriously – go with the purple. It’s a flavor thing)

Add:

1 to 1 ½ cups sliced grape or cherry tomatoes (this is a flavor thing, too. Other tomatoes have a different acid/sugar ratio that will affect the flavor of the dish).

To these chopped/sliced vegetables, add the bulgar. Toss.

For the dressing, whisk together:

¼ cup fresh lemon juice (one large lemon should do)
¼ cup olive oil
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon Kosher salt (again, it’s a flavor thing. Table salt has a metallic taste kosher salt does not)
½ teaspoon ground pepper

Pour the dressing into the large bowl with the bulgur and veggies. Toss well.

Makes 8 servings (maybe 12), 2.5 points for one cup.

Bulgur nutritional info: 1 cup serving = 151 calories, 34 grams of carbohydrates, 6 grams of protein, and 8 grams of dietary fiber (that’s 33 percent of your daily requirement!). A single serving of bulgur will also meet 10 percent of your daily intake needs for iron, and 2 percent of your daily need for calcium. It’s a powerful fuel that’s affordable. One bag of bulgur cost me $3.28 and fed my daughter and I lunch every day for three weeks.

This can be eaten on its own, or you can try this favorite:

TEBOULEH POCKETS

Take a whole-wheat pita, slice in half. Spread one tablespoon of hummus inside the pockets, as you would with mayo. Add 1/3 cup tebouleh, then stuff in a half cup of mixed greens.

This recipe, by the way, is only 4 points per serving for those on Weight Watchers.

ASIAN SPICE VEGETABLE SOUP

Prepare these vegetables and set aside:

2 – 3 cups bok choy, chopped
2 cups Napa cabbage, chopped (remove core and thick white sections)
2 bunches green onions, sliced
4 oyster mushrooms, freed from main stem, then each “petal” sliced in half
1 red bell pepper, sliced into “sticks”
2 cups sugar snap peas (snow peas are okay)
1 cup (1 can) sliced water chestnuts, drained
½ cup fresh cilantro, chopped

Simmer together for ten minutes (no more):

6 cups chicken broth

4 cloves garlic, minced
1/3 cup fresh ginger, sliced then julienned into strips
½ teaspoon to 1 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
3 tablespoons soy sauce

Remove broth from heat. Add vegetables, stir to combine, and then place a lid on the pot. Let stand for at least 6 minutes, until vegetables are cooked, but vibrant and crispy.

Less than 120 calories per 1 cup serving. Great with a bowl of rice in the morning for breakfast. I swear … it’s really good on a cold morning. This is a half-point soup option for those on Weight Watchers.

MY VALENTINE

2010-02-14T19:27:00.000-08:00

I've had a rockin' great weekend. My BMI has gone down 1.47 since the end of January. I went out with friends last night and didn't eat my way across town. I've learned I can stomach rum and Diet Coke, so long as I have plenty of limes. But better than all of that: I climbed today.

I wouldn't call it a triumphant return, though I did nearly on-sight my first route of the day (much to my surprise). My new harness is awesome - thank you, Black Diamond. Of course, this new harness was all twisted up and strange at first, took three people to straighten it out, and two failed attempts ... but that's another story for another day. Let's just say I lived up to my socially awkward ways and loved every minute of it.

The Flatland Climbing Comp is less than a week away, so the next four days will be the best climbing opportunities for me. After the comp, the wall will be rather bare with just the competition routes hung until everyone has their chance to master what mastered them. That means I've got four days to get up the "Back Bacon" and "Blue Hand Blues" (5.7) before they'll disappear just like the "Dolly Parton Project" did. I imagine I'll get UP one of those 5.7s before the route setters steal my dreams (metaphorically speaking).

Things that went really well today:

1. My foot didn't start to hurt until I spent too much time on the crux of my first route back.

2. I didn't panic, even when I really wanted to flail and bail.

3. I graduated from the house-issue "harness of shame" to my own (just like a big kid).

Things that could have gone better:

1. I let my head get too far away from the task at hand.

2. I didn't get to the wall in time to spend a half-hour bouldering.

Today was spectacular. I was able to return to the wall that I love (it hugged me, I swear). I made a new Asian-inspired soup (recipe to be posted later this month) that is spicy and loaded with fresh vegetables including a kind of mushroom I've never used before. I got my two-miles of walk/running in today, washed my sheets, graded student papers, and still found time to go to my Weight Watchers meeting before heading to the grocery store. The day ended at the wall, as all good days should. What more could I ask for? Chocolate? An earth-shattering orgasm? Puh-leaz!

Okay, so maybe the orgasm wouldn't be so bad. But it would have to be battery-free and not self-propelled like a John Deere lawnmower.

Anyway ...

My point (and I have one) is this: I'm back. The two months and two weeks in the Boot of Doom is over. I've got my life back. And that's more love than I could have hoped for this Valentine's Day.

SCALING

2010-02-10T19:32:00.000-08:00

P’UP is turning into a family affair. My oldest daughter decided she was willing to try one aspect of the project: Improving eating habits and exercising. After making so many changes on my own in the previous two years, I decided that perhaps we needed something more organized to help us get going together. So we decided to try Weight Watchers, and to see if the program can live up to his promise to help you, “stop dieting” and to “start living.”

We were dead before, you see.

We’re nearing the end our second week on the Weight Watchers program, and that alone is an accomplishment. This week, we’ve focused on two goals: 1) Incorporating more fiber-dense and nutritious foods into our menus (instead of buying all that empty brand-name “diet” fodder); and 2) Working out together.

Weight Watchers’ online tools and recipe converter have made it far easier (and dare I say, far more fun) to get a handle on both our nutritional needs and emotional outlook on the changes we’re trying to make. Having a weekly meeting on our calendar helps us to divide our goals into tidy increments that seem doable: A person can put up with anything for a week, right?

What we’ve accomplished: 1) Adding bulgur wheat dishes like Tebouleh to our culinary arsenal. Not only is it inexpensive, it’s packed with nutrients and whole-grain happiness. It’s low cost in the caloric sense, satisfying, and perfect when stuffed into a whole-wheat pita with a little hummus and mixed greens (recipe will be posted soon); and 2) We’ve made it to the gym together, an addition to my already busy recovery workout schedule.

The emphasis, at our house anyway, isn’t on the numbers. Our goals are relatively small, and reachable – always important for people trying to make big changes in their familial culinary traditions. Weight Watchers promotes this type of goal setting, dividing rewards (stickers, key chains, reasons for people in the meetings to clap for you) into five-pound increments. So no matter how much you have to lose in total, it’s only important to focus on five at a time.

Our goals, however, revolve around nutritional exploration and exercise. As a general rule, I don’t recommend weight loss programs. That being said, a program like Weight Watchers that requires clients to eat real food instead of pre-packaged mystery meals shipped to one’s house, is a smart way to go. For us, it has become something we can do together as a family with everyone invested for their own individual reasons.

This, I think, is really important. In any family unit, when one person goes such changes alone, it can be very hard on everybody. We’re keeping each other motivated and accountable to goals, working together on recipes, and walking together. This is the first time my kids have been willing to join in on the fun of change, so I’m excited.

Sundays have become our official planning day. We head to the Weight Watchers meeting in the late afternoon, go to the grocery store to stock up on perishables, like vegetables and fruits (no canned crap for us!), then spend the early evening cooking. What we’ve learned: With busy lifestyles, it’s really helpful to cook and freeze meals in one shot, package some meals such as soups and our beloved Tebouleh in single-serving containers, and cut up fresh vegetables in advance.

Though it seems like a lot of work, it’s not. Taking a couple of hours to plan and prepare the week’s meals (or as much of those meals as possible) has made day-to-day operations much easier. Each night before bed, I pack my lunch with fully planned healthy fare instead of doing what I used to do: Grabbing whatever’s handy and heading out the door. It’s been two weeks since I’ve eaten yogurt and pizza (not the best combination), or any restaurant food.

As a result, I’m saving money. I’m no longer tempted, either, to eat things that aren’t as healthy just because they’re handy (like a Wendy’s Baconator). As a general rule, I am more relaxed and introspective on Sundays, always have been, so it feels good to do something that will help relieve my weekday stress. My fifteen-hour days are no longer an excuse to do anything less than I deserve. That alone, feels like relief.

In terms of P’UP and my recovery, losing weight will make climbing and recovery easier. My immediate goal is to lose five percent of my starting body weight and to be able to walk/run 15 miles each week in the gym. Last week, I managed a total of 8 miles, so I am halfway there. The physical therapy exercises with the rubber band are helping to increase calf and ankle strength. The exercise I hate – motioning with the big toe the letters of the alphabet in big, sweeping strokes – still sucks. Though mobility is returning to the ankle and ligaments, the pain after the workout is enough to set my teeth on edge.

However, I’ve made progress and may be at the climbing wall this weekend to give it a shot. I’m not expecting to complete a route – I’m most worried about the first few moves. We’ll see. I’ll never know what I can do until I try – and I’m thinking that I’ll be ready to learn my limitations by Sunday.

I was tempted to keep our work with Weight Watchers secret for fear someone would post something about how we didn’t need to, that we could do this work on our own. I’m sure that we could – we’re tough birds – but it feels good to have an “official” outside space in which to experience this change. And it helps to meet and support others who are trying to do what you’re doing: Live.

Because this isn’t a numbers game, I won’t be posting losses in terms of pounds. When I reach that first goal, I’ll let you know. Thanks for your support.

TOO MUCH TIME ON MY HANDS

2010-02-04T00:00:00.000-08:00

I realized, after reading Climbing House today, that we learned how to make movies during the technology clinic in the NeWP Summer Writing Institute. So I went back and futzed around ... made this performance piece. I had forgotten how much fun this is to do, so thanks Climbing House. This film has nothing to do with climbing, but it made me feel better. And I think it could garner an Oscar for best animated short. No really.

WALKING INTO WORDS

2010-01-31T21:12:00.000-08:00

(PHOTO: E.F.R.'s inquiry notebook)

Foot recovery is going well. I'm mobile (always a plus), and I'm doing all the rubber band exercises I was told to do. It looks like I'll be making a serious attempt at climbing by mid February. In the meanwhile, I'm intensifying my workouts. Just this afternoon I bought a serious pair of walking shoes with all the geriatric support a woman recovering from an injury would need. They ain't pretty, these shoes, but they keep my foot in the right position and that's all that matters. Not quite orthopedic; not designed to make my butt better; these Avia walkers are the Volvo of shoes: "Boxy but good."

As part of my recovery, I joined Nebraska Writing Project veterans for the 2010 Winter Writing Marathon on Jan. 23. Each season, the NeWP hosts one of these writing/walking events that encourages writers to claim spaces/places, write for awhile, then move on to another place/space. There were just under thirty participants this winter - a marathon record - and we began our journey at the Sheldon Art Museum on the UNL campus. For me, one who has been forced to rethink physicality while waiting to heal, who has been craving climbing the way some crave recreational drugs, it was a magic day. Not only did I write and take photographs, I walked!

After dividing our large group into five smaller ones, we hit the streets of Lincoln. The day was balmy for January, though the sunny sky gave way to the gray of winter just as we set out. My group stopped first at The Coffee House for a cup of joe at our first forty-five minute writing session. We sipped coffee and wrote, then before heading off to our next destination we shared our writing. NeWP marathon participants are asked to simply say, "Thank you" after another writer shares a draft. It's an intimate way to get over the fear of writing and sharing your work. I think this is why I like these marathon opportunities so much. And I must admit, it just felt damn good to be out walking in a pair of real shoes, even as the tendons in my foot and ankle ached. Recovery that involves writing is the best kind, I think. My first poem of the day:

(PHOTO: "Torn Notebook" by Claes Oldenberg and Coosje van Bruggen, 1996)

ANTIQUITY

The bones don’t carry the load
and my curves are wider than they used to be.

The hairpins are now straight-aways,
the pert mountains have eroded to drifting

foothills – or what could be foothills if
gravity proves as constant as Newton claimed.

Such is the topography of middle age. I can’t
decide if my body’s failing me or coming into

its own, like the Roman Coliseum or the
Greek Parthenon. Sometimes, it seems

my mind leans like that Tower Pisa –
an architectural wonder, true, but

not where you’d want to set up shop.
I don’t know why I am so surprised

to learn I could not stave the evidence
of time, that my doctor would say, “mammogram”

and mean it every year, that my old bones
wouldn’t bear the weight of my young ideas.

But I am. I look for time the way
I look for my car keys – late –

with someplace to go, wondering
what else I’ve lost, forgotten.

(PHOTO: "Fallen Dreamer" by Tom Otterness)

From the CoHo, we moved on to try to get into the Tugboat Gallery, one of the many studios occupying the floor above Novel Idea Bookstore and Gomez Art Supply on 14th street. Unfortunately, the gallery was closed. So my group hung out in the commons area among the studios, listening to artists work on projects as we worked on our own. In that forty-five minute burst, I created a poem best described as an "ambitious mistake" (a designation that goes to most of my errors).

We then moved on to the Great Plains Art Museum - an architectural monument to honor the color beige. The bran interior leaves one wondering if the interior designer was colorblind. Sitting there for half an hour, I wrote this poem:

MUSEUM

Ivory, beige, taupe, wheat, shell – so much
Sensibility in this textile interpretative Plains dance.

I wish there was some amber, perhaps
the brilliant blue of April sky, maybe

the swaying red of seductive summer sunsets.
Is this a Cornflake museum in sensible shoes,

an architectural ode to utility?
This is not the Nebraska I know.

It’s not the palette of my colorful life ripe
with artists, poets, writers, and musicians.

My wagon ruts lead to smoky jazz
underground poetry potlucks

and the burnt umber of my poor choices –
But the mural of my great plains,

the tapestry life led to settle,
isn’t hung in this burlap place.

At the end of the marathon, all the participants gathered at Misty's to eat dinner together and hold a public reading of their favorite writings from the day. If you've never done a writing marathon, I highly recommend trying one the next time you're out in rock country or chillin' in your favorite town. Sitting around, taking in the sights of everyday life can focus one's writer eyes, make small things grand, important.

After dinner and goodbyes, I headed to Indigo Bridge Books in The Creamery Building at Lincoln's Haymarket - my new favorite place to hang out. Not only is this place an independent bookstore, it's got a fantastic and cozy coffee shop inside. I bought the one Kerouac book I didn't own, sat down with a cup of coffee, and enjoyed the night sounds of my writing life even as my foot ached from a long day of walking into words.

BURNIN' MORE RUBBER THAN A FRAT HOUSE ON A SATURDAY NIGHT

2010-01-20T08:24:00.000-08:00

(Photo: The Monty Python Foot)

"Let's get you weened off this thing," may be my favorite quote of 2010. My doc, after checking x-rays and saying a whole lot about rehab home therapy, and after handing me a gigantic rubber band, said these magical words. And I, leaving the health center, waving a rubber band above my head, could only think of one song by The Spinners:

Hey, y'all prepare yourself
For the Rubberband (wo) man
You never heard a sound
Like the rubberband (wo)man
You're bound to lose control
When the Rubberband starts to jam

So for a few weeks, it's gonna be me, boot-free, and a big rubber band.

Got that rubberband
Up on [her] toes
And then he wriggled it up
All around [her] nose

The leg's a bit chicken-ish, spindly, and I can't climb until I can support my weight on that leg. But guess who's dancing? Guess who's already snapped herself in the forehead? Guess who's wearing a left shoe?

Hey ya'll prepare yo'self ... doo doo doo doo doo doo-doo doo-doo!

CHILLIN' WITH THE BIG KIDS

2010-01-18T12:04:00.001-08:00

Over the winter break, I got a chance to chill with Rec climbing alums. The old school crowd was fully represented, spare the notable absence of Eli Powell. You can get to know this fine group of people by following their blog (click: Climbing House). It was good to get back to the wall even if I couldn't climb. When I arrived, sauntering with penguinesque sex appeal, I rushed the wall to give it a big hug. I think it hugged me back.

(PHOTO: I experience healthy foot envy as dirt bags air their feet at the bench)

I still have weeks of recovery time ahead of me. Getting out of the Boot of Doom is just the first step (no pun intended). I'll have some physical therapy to gain both strength and mobility in the joint, and I have to regain some of my once-admirable calf muscle. In the big scheme of things, this injury isn't disastrous, but it has set me back. Navigating my disappointment and sense of physical captivity, relying on others for help with things I normally would do myself, and accepting limitations hasn't been easy.

I miss the people from the wall, the witty nonsense and constant conversation, so I'm eager to get back. For now, I'll focus on getting better and rebuilding strength, taking better care of myself, and trying not to scream obscenities into the universe (bad karma, at this stage, should not be courted nor gained).

A LITTLE R-N-R

2010-01-06T21:47:00.000-08:00

It's too cold to do much of anything spare stare outside my window and loathe my geographical choices. However, I found this book, The Book Thief, and I haven't been able to put it down even though I have course planning to do, a website to design, and a rabble of neglected responsibilities. The book is an unusual structure for a novel - it's definitely postmodern - but it's a story about one who ushers souls "home" and his following of a book thief - a little girl - in Nazi Germany. If you're looking for a good book, the kind that pushes you to think outside of your own life's worries, this is an awesome choice.

I've also been experimenting with music, searching for unusual instrumentalists. Music is a very important part of my life, and my discovery of Andy McKee has added great joy to an already joyful hobby. I just bought his album, "Art in Motion," and this song prompted the purchase:

Though this song has unusual percussion, the rest of the album is just soulful and deep. It's not the sort of fodder you'd hear at a John Tesh dinner party, either. This song, "Into the Ocean" is as beautiful to hear as it is fascinating to watch:

Candyrat Records is fast becoming one of my favorite independent labels. I've got a roster of soon-to-be-acquired albums, and I'm enjoying music without lyrics. You might, too.

On the classical end of things, I'm liking Pepe Romero and Ana Vidovic. She's cooler to watch than dear ol' Pepe:

With the temperature falling below zero and the wind chills hovering at a balmy -16 tonight, I decided to write, listen to music, and bake some of those pumpkin muffins I featured on this very blog. I baked a lean but outrageously good burgundy stew tonight, and I'll post that recipe later this month.

Recovery is slow, but good. I wish the weather wasn't so bleak - I've got cabin fever. But other than these two minor things, life feels pretty good. My focus now is on getting better so I can train to go to Shelf Road in April. Let's hope my x-rays on the 13th are encouraging and my doc gives me the clearance to assume "normal" (whatever that is) activities.

LITTLE BIG NEWS

2010-01-06T01:09:00.000-08:00

(PHOTO: www.bulldogdrummond.com)

LINCOLN, Neb.- Erica F. Rogers (D) bent her ankle on Tuesday with full mobility for the first time since Nov. 25, 2009. Circular rotation of the foot is possible, but not recommended. News of this healing milestone was welcomed. Rogers, having spent more than five weeks in the tarsal chastity belt otherwise known as "the Boot of Doom," said she was encouraged by recent developments. Clutching her climbing harness and wiping tears with her polka-dot chalk bag, the novice indoor sport climber was visibly moved as she reached this healing milestone.

"I can see the end of the road," Rogers said, "and it leads to the Rec center."

The x-ray scheduled for Jan. 16 has been moved up to Jan. 13. Rogers said she is optimistic, and forecasted a short-term regime with physical therapy and a gradual entry into normal activity. Though initial recovery estimates seemed grim, Rogers said she believes she will be climbing again before March 1.

"I have to," Rogers said, "this sedentary lifestyle is making my butt grow."

OUT WITH THE OLD

2009-12-29T10:25:00.000-08:00

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With friends in town for the holidays, I made it to the climbing wall to watch old timers and newbies get their climb on. I did belay, with the Boot of Doom I'm solidly anchored, and I'm not ashamed to admit I hugged the wall. The routes looked so beautiful, so welcoming, I ached to get UP. Unfortunately, I've got another twenty days to sit out until the next x-ray.

On Jan. 16 I'll find out my prognosis and recovery options. The swelling has gone down quite a bit - foot looks like a foot now instead of a Fred Flintstone club of a thing. And I've regained feeling in my toes. I'm excited about these small victories, and even more hopeful that I'll be UP again soon.

I haven't decided how I will celebrate the new year. I've been invited to a couple of parties, but I've never been one to go out on NYE - it's always been amateur night to me. Instead, I like to open a bottle of Irish cream and sip until I'm sleepy. I'm hardly the party princess.

All the same, I look forward to 2010 - it's challenges and possibilities.

LE PARKOUR: DAVID BELLE

2009-12-12T21:07:00.000-08:00

Leave it to the French to take something ordinary, like "street climbing" and turn it into haute couture. If you've never heard of "Le Parkour," as a sport or pop culture phenomenon, then you're in for a treat. Translated, "le parkour" is the art of displacement, when one runs through a series of obstacles. As a French discipline, it sits somewhere between military urban warfare training and martial arts. Le Parkour is a component of French military training that emphasizes negotiating urban terrain to gain both position and advantage. What's interesting to me, is the how often Le Parkour requires mastery of what naturalist and sport climbers would term "dyno" moves.

Of course, I doubt Americans will be surprised to learn that the true origin of le Parkour rests in flight (a.k.a. retreat), a discipline that encourages students to make the most of all surfaces in order to protect oneself. Within French urban culture, however, Le Parkour is a mixture of its history and contemporary street culture. Like skateboarding, the sport draws the younger crowd who gather to compete and share trade moves.

The most notable expert in Le Parkour is David Belle. He is, by most accounts, the Bruce Lee of Le Parkour. And he's amazing:

Reading the Wikipedia entry describing Le Parkour (click here), it seems to me that this is a sport similar to climbing. Both require critical thinking and discipline, a sense of inner play and possibility. Both sports, too, require the sort of people who aren't afraid to take risks in order to gain self-confidence. In a BBC article (click BBC), Belle asserts that his mission is "to make people understand what it is to move." Watching his videos on You Tube, I can attest to my own blossoming understanding of how his work in Le Parkour could and will influence my work as a climber.

What's more interesting to me, however, is the ways in which Belle asserts that his version of street climbing is a philosophical act visible through practice. This reminds me of all the climbing videos I have watched since my injury, and the many ways in which one's personality or worldview is made visible through rock climbing. Though Belle was first claimed by gymnastic folk and runners - le parkour was once termed "free running" in the U.S. - it seems to me that the sport's epicenter on grip and forearm strength, mental discipline, and overall agility could make it a French kissing cousin of both rock and sport climbing.

For Belle, Le Parkour is a sport of "you against you" - and this is something climbing presents too. And the more I watch Belle, his training videos and performances, the more I understand what he means about "movement." Facing the rock or the urban landscape, one does confront obstacles. In that confrontation one learns more about personal freedom and self-respect than anywhere else. In my scholarly pursuits, I term this confrontation "displacement" and "process" - so it shouldn't be too surprising that I'm fond of climbing and le Parkour because it turns the cerebral into the physical. This is why I encourage my students to join me at the climbing wall, too.

Though most would have us separate the philosophical from "the real," I fail to see that separation as natural. To me, this breaking between mind and body is a byproduct of WWII mechanisms, ones that brought the university together with the military in order to gain advantage (and ultimately nuclear power). In the 1940s and 50s, America loved its scientists. Only after the bombings in Nagasaki and Hiroshima did the average joe get a view of what nerds were capable of and I think it scared them.

Scientists have been suspect since, throughout the "space race" and the Cold War, science was at the heart of espionage. So it seems the division between the "smart science people" and the "regular people" had everything to do with the circles in which they moved. Culture compartmentalized, and the "regular" people cast suspicious eyes at those in their ivory tower labs and libraries. It hasn't been cool to be a nerd since.

Even James Bond had to deal with science as villain in Goldfinger, and popular culture since often posits science as dangerous.

Technology presented, too, the "confrontation of one's humanity" like the Stanley Kubrick film, "2001: A Space Odyssey":

In the 1973 film, Westworld, Yul Brynner portrays a rogue robot. I saw the movie when I was a kid, maybe five or so, and had many nightmares featuring Mr. Brynner until I saw him in The King and I. The film was based on the premise as technology as vacation - with better actors and twists than the later Total Recall with Alnold Governator of Californie.

Anyway, my point is this: as typical plot themes go, technology rarely gets to be a hero. And the compartmentalization of people and knowledge, the ways in which theory was separated from praxis (though the two are braided together even when we can't name the theories at play), limited movement. This limited freedom and movement eventually became, as most social constraint mechanisms do, a collective preference. In our case, the exact opposite of movement is stability - a term government officials and politicos, financial "experts" and commentators throw around with unfortunate regularity.

It was French language theorist and philosopher Jacques Derrida that introduced us to the nature of binaries and controls through language, and his response to stability - he argued this stability was about hierarchal structures - was play. Derrida provoked play every chance he got, as a way of moving through language and through thought. So I'm not surprised David Belle focuses on movement and philosophy, nor am I surprised to see the organizations supporting play as an engagement with imagination such as the Norfolk Council's "National Play Day" co-sponsored by Le Parkour Alliance:

My interest in movement, of course, stems from the fact that my own physical movement is limited by my injury. And as I process my emotive responses to my physical limitations, I return again and again to the connection between personal freedom and physicality. Mental and physical are visible to me in wholly new ways. And the more I think about it, the more I wonder if the charges that climbing, Le Parkour, and other nonconformist sports are "reckless" and "dangerous" are made because the sports put into physical movement, in tangible ways that are witnessed, the need and right to think for oneself.

Both climbing and le Parkour require critical engagement with surrounding spaces - the spatial theorist in my finds this fascinating. Both require a willingness to push back common tropes or meanings surrounding what is safe. Both require one to be physically and mentally present at the same time. And it seems both attract intelligent people who seem to be living out their personal theories in the real world. When I'm climbing, I'm processing my own physicality, my lived realities, and my body as miraculous machine. It's the movement up the wall that brings me in tune with my mind.

So I think I'll be adding some of the training moves/exercises from Belle's le Parkour to my workout schedule as soon as I can. I think training should be about play, about building strength and self-respect. I won't be back-flipping or anything, but I will be concentrating on grip and forearm strength, mobility and balance. I'll also be thinking more about urban landscapes and movement, about freedom and place. But I'm a nerd. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

FREEDOM IN MY CAPTIVITY

2009-12-06T14:45:00.000-08:00

I like Sonnie Trotter's rhetorical approach to framing his view of climbing and self-development. Having so much time on my hands to keep off my feet, I find that watching climbing videos assuages my sense of loss.

I've never been a patient person, but I agree with Trotter's assertion that "climbing is pure fun, pure joy." I'm not even a "real" climber - I'm still working on the skills I'll need outdoors. But I have felt more personal freedom, a real sense of self-trust and wonderment, roped in and harnessed, than I've ever felt before.

Sitting in my apartment, foot propped as ordered, reading books and writing in the margins of student papers, my mind wanders. Years ago, when I was fearless and green, still missing my front teeth, I used to climb the "monkey bars" at school. The goal was always to get to the top, to sit at the steel summit and see what my world looked like from there.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Hixon felt this was too dangerous for girls. She often limped over, bearing her weight on a cane, to yell at me to get down. She was a fierce woman who looked a bit like Henry Kissinger in a polyester JC Penny suit. One didn't mess around with Mrs. Hixon - rumors abounded Elmira Elementary. She cast spells. She collected children's bones. She was a real witch, not a poser on TV.

Mrs. Hixon would tap her cane on her useless leg and demand of us, "Do you want to end up like me? Get down!" and we obeyed. Carrie, Wendy, and I were tomboys, eager to get out and make our way in the world, but none of us had the moxie to monkey around after we'd been spotted by the eagle-eyed yard duty teacher.

Looking back at my life, I had many teachers of fear. My childish impulse was to push, to explore, to see what would happen. Loving adults, even not so loving adults, were always offering imagined consequences for my curiosity. Everything I most wanted to do would kill me, in their mind, or make me deaf, blind, and stupid.

Children were safer on the ground. We shouldn't run with scissors. We shouldn't run at all. Walk. Be quiet. Don't make a mess. Don't leave a wake. Obey. Obey. Obey.

And I became supremely obedient, to rules, conventions, and even unspoken but felt restrictions. I've spent the greater part of my life worrying about consequences. In those worries, I've closed opportunistic paths. Somehow convinced of how things should be, I failed to look at how things were. I've shied away a first kiss. I've let phone calls go unreturned. I've told myself "No," far more often than I've said, "Why not?"

I have failed to see "the fine line of possibility" as anything more than a line in the sand, something I shouldn't cross. Until now.

With nothing better to do, I've been making lists of all the things I hope to do once I get this Boot of Doom off my foot. It's a work in progress, of course, and the Doc said I can't climb for six months. So in the meanwhile I'm planning to:

1. Dance badly until I feel good

2. Skip

3. Wiggle my toes with joy

4. Saunter with sass

5. Ask the guy who has been flirting with me if he is, indeed, flirting with me before asking, "You gonna do something, or just stand there and breathe?"

6. If he wasn't flirting, then I'm going to point an accusing finger and yell, "Poser!" then scurry away

7. Walk into the truck stop lobby, demand a copy of Playgirl, toss cash on the counter, then declare, "I'm buying this for the testarticles!"

8. Take my bathroom scale for a ride in the country, then beat it down Office Space Style

9. Watch The Big Lebowski again, this time with friends, and drink every time someone says, "Dude."

10. Walk until I don't feel like walking anymore

11. Perform a poem in the state capitol building - uninvited

12. Do whatever I have to do to get "Meat Spin" out of my cerebral folds. I saw it two summers ago and I still haven't fully recovered.

13. Burn some journals - it's time

14. Go sledding - I haven't been in years

I'm sure the list will grow. Climbing is at the top of all my lists, but I'm afraid I'll have to follow Doc's orders. But in the meanwhile, I will keep worrying the fray of possibility, thinking about how I want my life to be when this deep resting spell is over.

HOBBLED

2009-12-04T14:04:00.001-08:00

If you haven't seen Alfred Hitchcock's 1954 classic, Rear Window, starring James Stewart and Grace Kelly, you should. Considering its debut in 1955 rattled moviegoers with its frank, voyeuresque perspective, it's one of those films that challenges the common, and perhaps false, perspective of 1950s innocence. There's nothing innocent about this film - it portrays communal living with a sort of unflinching construction of both observation and critique. Stereotypes are used in wholly new ways, and it's clear the film itself is pushing the envelope of censorship and decency for the era.

It's a thinking person's film, the sort that just aren't made very often in our contemporary time. Dialogue matters (instead of being used to just move plot or set up the next "money shot"). And like good fiction, "the devil is in the details." Hitchcock does a masterful job of placing the viewer in the chair of L.B. Jefferies (Stewart). I think that's just one of the things that makes me love this film.

Hitchcock builds on the common trope, the one equating wheelchairs and injuries with supreme vulnerability, and uses it to get inside the viewer's psyche. Often, when we're at our best, we think of chair confinement and injury as an interruption in "normalcy," a weakness to be healed, and even internment. This view has shaped the cultural view of those permanently living in such a condition - so much so the pro-rights movement for the physically challenged began its confrontation of society with a rhetorical campaign to change "handicapped" to "handicapable."

To lose mobility is to lose one's Western sense of self, of living, as Stephen King highlights in the 1990 film, Misery, starring James Caan and Kathy Bates. There's nothing more horrifying than injury, than internment and dependency or even the codependent relationship between hostage and captor. When Paul Sheldon (Caan) betrays Annie Wilkes (Bates) by attempting escape, she intensifies their bond by changing the nature of their relationship. She hobbles him, and in the process, increases both his dependency and hers:

Annie Wilkes' (Bates) connection between capitalist behaviors in the diamond mines, behaviors that created hostages of the working class, is an interesting (and haunting) connection. However we enter the capitalist machine, we all become hobbled by it in some way eventually. We won't quit or leave a bad job for fear of losing what we have - our dependency becomes the very nature of our internment. We'll critique the economy, hold it responsible, for our stresses instead of considering employers themselves manufacture and support our subordination with help from a ruling class and culture.

What really sucks: Ideologies are just as hostile to our well-being as our working conditions. What we value limits us, curtails our sense of independent agency, shapes our sense of "being" (in the philosophical sense) by making the day-to-day conditions seem normal, inarguably true - "the given circumstances" everyone encounters. Everybody works, so we say, so everybody has to "deal" with the limitations of that employer/employee relationship. Or as the song goes, "Everybody hurts ..."

I've been thinking about ideologies and normalcy all day - probably because my injury won't let me get too far from my apartment. One can do homework and read philosophies only so long before everything makes dangerous sense and one's mind wanders off, regardless of the limitations of metaphysics. When I'd get this antsy, disconnected feeling in the past, I'd either get on my bike or head to the wall (sometimes both). With all exits blocked and some regrettable chaffing in ye olde pits, escape isn't so easily won.

So I've been thinking, perhaps too much, about climbing and philosophy. In my jacked-up little world, I've come to think of climbing as a respite. But I'm thinking today that as marvelous as that may seem, I shouldn't afford myself such a hiding place. Climbing can be restorative, but it's not naturally so. In fact, I'd argue that climbing is always a litmus test. Even climbs one has done before can present a new challenge. So as one does come to wall or rock wanting the easy, self-removed hour or so of leisure, that isn't always what one gets. Climbing has a way of baring one's hidden limitations, the "I can't" and "I don't think I can do this" constructed on and off the climb.

I know I come to it looking forward to facing down my own thresholds, to push myself past my own sense of limitation and skill. And the sense of relief, the respite from daily drudgery, isn't anything but the shirking of chains I myself have cast. In other words, I've made choices - like my relationship status, my program, my job - that come at a cost. I don't always feel as though the consequences of these choices are just, tolerable, or even surmountable, but that doesn't equate to a loss of free will. Each day that I get up, go to work, crack a book - whatever - I am affirming my original choices.

Climbing, then, is a microcosm of larger psychological workings. It puts into route all the struggles that seem unrelated into a linear progression. Climbing is a condensation of the stakes. One can either go up, go down, or bail. Seems to me that's pretty much how life works. When it comes to work, I go up. When it comes to the day-to-day, I descend because one always wakes up, just as one hits the sheets and "goes down for the night." What I hate to admit, though, is that when it comes to love in all its constructions, I bail.

When I get close to friends, and begin to feel attachment, I often disappear or foster conflict - subconsciously - to alleviate a sense of vulnerability I have, until recently, perceived as uneasiness. When I have been within reach of a relationship, I have withdrawn, held firm a sense of awkward incompetence that is completely counter to my personality, because loneliness is a condition I know well and trust in a sick sort of way. You want to fuck me up? Love me and mean it. You'll soon see that I panic and squirm, claw and howl, like a cat going into a warm flea bath.

A few years ago, I thought this had more to do with my past than my present. I thought abuse had made me wary. But that was an old, crippling view, a limitation, chains forged from my own self-doubt. Just recently, with the changing of seasons, I came to believe that my way of coping with vulnerability is simply to bail. Climbing, in just a few short months, taught me the cost of bailing, the personal critique that follows when one bails on a route or project too soon. It has taught me to approach larger issues as a shorter set of "problems," and then to work out the skills, problem by problem, necessary to tackle the larger work.

Harnessed in and on-belay, I am the most physically vulnerable I'll ever be of my own will. When I'm working my way UP, I don't think about the move before - everything is on a future trajectory. One move at a time, one problem. In a world praising the value of multi-tasking, such mono-focus may seem archaic, pedestrian. But this ability to concentrate on just the present circumstances is saving my soul at the moment, when it's all I can do to get through my apartment without snagging on some outcropping of furniture, dragging a discarded something along with my crutches, or thwapping my Boot of Doom against the kitchen trash can no matter how often I remind myself of its location.

I used to possess a modicum of grace ... now I'm just sticks and momentum.

But when I lay awake, foot propped, book in my lap, I'm completely in that moment. I'm no longer thinking of all the things I need and want to do. I don't have a ticker running at the base of my consciousness, alerting me of my responsibilities and desires. Instead, I have just the words in my lap and the sense that time has been stretched into a pliant frame. What else do I have but presence? The past belongs to history, and the future has yet to be claimed. So all there is to worry about, to shape, to defy, is the present.

Well, and myself.

I think some define climbing as reckless because the thought of being so confident in one's ability that one would climb high and away from the stability of the ground is terrifying. People will say, "I can't do that - I'm afraid of heights." But I think, really, what they mean is that they don't want to experience not a loss of control, but the full accountability to oneself. Up there by choice, secured by a knot tied with one's own hands, there's not much room for a lack of self-respect. I'm no braver on the wall than I am on the ground - it's just that my self-trust and challenges are exposed. The wall becomes a mirror to the soul, and the soul's a fierce warrior.

Sometimes I think it's easier to accept one's weaknesses than embrace one's strengths. Compliments have always made me uneasy. And today, while sitting in my chair, clacking out a new entry for P'UP, I decided that was prima facie evidence of my own limiting ideologies. I raised my own bullshit flag. In the moments after, reaching for my crutches, I decided that they were the last ones I would ever allow myself to use. I'm thinking that this injury and its recovery is a demand for a different sort of climbing - a scaling of my conscience. And to make matters worse, its a free solo.

Bailing is not an option.

IRONSIDE: RIDING THE CAROUSEL OF KARMIC JUSTICE

2009-12-03T15:03:00.000-08:00

(Photo: Raymond Burr played the lead in "Ironside," a popular police drama that ran from 1967-1975).

It's been a turbulent week for P'UP. On Monday, I spent the afternoon at the health center. A painful exam and seven x-rays revealed I had a large crack in my heel bone, where it meets the tarsals. Instead of cracking the heel, as most adults do, I cracked the front portion that ends where one's arch begins. When I fell, twisting my foot, the bone cracked under pressure. The good news: I will not need an expensive surgery to pin and plate the break, as most people do. Instead, I'm to spend the next four weeks on crutches, another two in the boot, and then I get to do physical therapy. The bad news: Doc said it'll be three months before I'm walking "normally."

The worst news: Doc said he wants me to wait six months before climbing again.

Sitting in the exam room, sweating in the Boot of Doom, I teared up. He handed me a tissue, and told me we'd know more in six weeks or so, when he did another set of x-rays. "But usually," he said, "you can count on at least six months before resuming athletic activity. For now, just concentrate on everyday mobility."

My doc, a trim forty-five year-old runner, listened to me as I explained P'UP, my fitness goals, and how much I've learned so far.

"Rock climbing? At forty? Even I'm not brave enough to try that! Good for you!" he said.

"I'm just worried that my project will get derailed now. This is a huge setback for me. I was hoping to be on my first real rock trip in April. I have no idea what I'm going to write about now."

He sat down. "I know this is a setback," he said. "But it could be a lot worse. We'll get you up and climbing, it's just going to take time."

I spent a fair amount of my evening trying to figure out what I would write about, and how this setback could be framed in the larger P'UP project. I suppose, when one takes on a year-long inquiry project, one should expect to roll with the challenges and contemplate their meaning and potential. I know I said I had no idea where this project would take me and that I was willing to share my experience. However, I never anticipated it would take me to the orthopedic surgeon.

Doc said I should concentrate on the awesome upper-body workout crutches will give me, and the forearm strength I will develop. He promised that he would help me to figure out an exercise plan at our six-week appointment. And I suppose I could spend the next few weeks working on my grip - as soon as I send someone out to buy what I need to do that.

Until I was brought to this stop, I hadn't realized how active I had become. I was walking the mile to and from work each day, hitting the climbing wall 3-4 times a week, and doing yoga at home. Now, it's all I can do to take a shower, navigate my apartment, and get up and down three flights of stairs in my building each day. Getting around on crutches is difficult, cumbersome, and a general pain in the ass. And I have to rely on the kindness of others, like friends who have given me rides to work, done my grocery shopping for me, or sat at home with my daughter who just had her tonsils removed yesterday.

I went back to work today, and I'm exhausted. Even with the elevator, it's difficult to get to all the places I need to get to in that building. Just getting back and forth from my office to the central printer is a sweaty effort. One of my bosses suggested I use the wheelchair they keep in the office for just such occasions. When she did this morning, I balked. At three o'clock this afternoon, with my foot throbbing and painkillers fogging my head, I decided that perhaps I should use that chair until I got over this "breaking in" period of limitation.

I don't think I'll be able to make the wheelchair seem as sexy as Detective Ironside does ...

In the meantime, I think I'll continue working on recipes, interviews and profiles, as well as training. I'm not sure what form that training will take, but as it takes shape I'll be sure to share it. All I can say for now is this: I'm really disappointed. My climbing day in Madison was a good one, and I was feeling more and more capable at the wall. It seems as though Karma has other plans for me, however, and the journey of ascension will begin anew, from a more broken and difficult place.

I suppose it's just as important to document this part of the struggle as it is to share the "highlights." I won't blame you, dear reader, should you tire of the navel gazing and introspection. It's interesting to me that just as I reached a place of confidence, I was handed a tremendous challenge. I shouldn't be surprised. This is, after all, the way life really works.

In the weeks ahead, I'll make a point to stop in at the wall to visit with my new friends there. I'll continue doing interviews and profiles because it's the people that made the work so much fun, so inspirational. And I now have a new set of recipes: "Dinners you can cook sitting down" and "Tiny Tim Specials: God Bless Us, Everyone." Every time I set my crutches in the corner, I think of Tiny Tim, The Christmas Carol, and then ponder the power of painkillers.

I'm down, but not out. I'm not giving in - far from it. I suppose at this hour, when the ache goes deep into the bone and the heart feels a bit restless, I'm just tired. Tomorrow will be different. It may not be better, but it will be different. And I suppose that's something to look forward to - no matter what.

PHOT-OHs: MUGGIN' AND PLUGGIN' P'UP

2009-11-30T07:13:00.001-08:00

(PHOTO: Home sweet home with my new living room furniture - just $16 for table, chairs, ottoman, and a lamp from the Goodwill)

I didn't want anyone to think I didn't have fun in Madison. Despite my review below, I made the best of the facilities I was allowed to use. It was Brad's first climbing experience, so I didn't want to be a sourpuss about our limitations. We had a great time, though the clip-in auto-belay system (wasn't their a manufacturer's recommended recall last month???) made descents both awkward and "sticky." I was bummed about this - I wanted Brad to have the sort of experience I had my first climbs at UNL.

Christina wanted to climb, but her left ankle wasn't fully recovered. She fell last week, in a hole, during some sort of par-tay with new friends in Milwaukee. I hope she'll be able to go to my review trip to Warrenville, Illinois some time next year. Sidelined with an injury, she got stuck with the dubious honor of being our documentarian. Considering the limitations of my camera, a Canon PowerShot A720 IS, she did a good job. My camera, by the way, is out of commission. The shutter mechanism got sand in it during my summer trip to California and this morning, well, it stuck in the open position (despite my efforts to fix it). So it looks like I'll be dropping off my camera at Rockbrook this afternoon while hoping the repair won't cost more than an 8.0 mega pixel 6x zoom replacement.

At this point, I'm hoping to get a digital video camera - something beyond the Flip but not quite as pricey as the cameras I oogled at Best Buy. Not only am I becoming a gear ho, checking out climbing stuff online the way my ex surfed for porn, I'm becoming a digidweeb - hot for electronics. Checking out new climbing videos on YouTube has become a favorite hobby of mine, but that isn't saying much. I'll do just about anything to avoid reading the books on my dissertation comp list.

I'd even read stereo instructions, in Spanish mind you, and I don't habla.

Later today, I'm heading to the medical clinic for an x-ray on the sausage foot. Even after five days the thing hasn't improved, unless one considers its kaleidoscope color striations and blue toes improvement. At this point, I just want a shoe splint so I can go to work tomorrow. I've got teaching to do.

I'm bummed out, though. I already know the recovery time is going to cost me. My callouses, which were finally solid, will soften. I'll have to go through that conditioning period again. And I'm worried I'll gain weight or lose ground I worked so hard to cover at the wall. Climbing is "inherently dangerous," so I'm not complaining about the injury itself - I had a great time getting it.

Well, except that biffing part, where I fell from grace and into my face.

It looks like my next scheduled review will be of Vertical Endeavors in St. Paul, Minnesota. I'm headed to Minneapolis for the Rhetoric Society of America conference there during Memorial Day Weekend. It's a big conference and my first appearance there, so I thought I'd add to the fun by spending a day climbing. At some point, I'd like to check out the Stone Age Climbing Gym in New Mexico - and the outdoor climbing near Albuquerque.

Why the emphasis on sport climbing indoors? Well, why not? It seems that as popularity grows for both climbing and comps, and as some gyms employ a "great for parties and retreats" approach to wooing customers, reviews would be worthwhile. Also, I'm promoting healthy lifestyle development for women of all ages and sizes. I hope to contribute to others' sense of experimentation and growth - the sort of good stuff climbing provides in ways other sports/workouts can't.

But mostly, I'm having fun. I do hope to make it to the Shelf Road trip scheduled for April, but I may have to wait until the fall since I'm heading to Washington, D.C., Minneapolis, and Milwaukee again in the first six months of the year. Laura's graduating in June and Christina's getting married in July. It's going to be a busy year.

That reminds me: I'm collecting green wine bottles for Christina's centerpieces at the reception. If you live nearby or will be visiting, bring me your empties (or better still, full ones and we'll empty them together). Christina and Brad are trying to put together a "green" wedding, so all of our decorations, table service, and all that which is bridal, is coming from nontraditional sources such as thrift stores. Even the caterer is a owner-operated organic food restaurant. Beans and Barley of Milwaukee will be providing the trays - and I think that's pretty cool.

The wedding and reception will be at the original PBR brewery in Milwaukee - a beautiful space rich with history. I'm hoping my friends and PBR loyals will consider making the trip. It looks like we're going to have a rockin' good time.

That's about all I've got today: X-rays, a trip to the camera store, Dad and Denise stopping in for the night on their way from Chicago to Longmont, Colo., a dinner to cook in their honor, and papers to grade. It's a good thing I got my climb on over the break - there's no telling when I get to climb again.

REVIEW: GETTING P'UP, DOWN & OUT OF TOWN

2009-11-29T14:09:00.001-08:00

Boulders Climbing Gym
3964 Commercial Ave
Madison, WI 53714-1216
(608) 244-8100

Cost to Climb:
Clip in with harness $16 (without belay certification) $12 day use (without equipment rental and with belay certification), $10 late day use

Equipment Rentals: harness ($4), chalk bag ($4), shoes ($4), belay device ($4) each, or any three for $10.

RATING: Three Chalk Balls out of Five

When I was a kid, roller skating and disco melded together in an unholy alliance. In the late 1970s and early 1980s a teenager, caught in the pointless years between thirteen and driving age, could have an exciting Friday night at the local roller rink. While holding the sweaty hand of a pimply beau, skating to the Bee Gee’s “How Deep Is Your Love?” awkward romances bloomed.

Oh yeah, it was hot stuff.

When I first arrived at Boulders Climbing Gym in Madison, Wisconsin I was reminded of a 1980s roller rink in Fairfield, California. Bold colors and manufactured “street art” graffiti marked the welcome area that included a sales and registration counter, changing area with storage cubbies, restrooms, hold storage and class rooms, manager’s office and equipment sales area.

I emailed the gym last week, describing my project and concerns. I was given very little information in response to my requests, but welcomed all the same. As I prepared for the review, I couldn’t decide whether to bring my own gear or to arrive as one off the streets intrigued with climbing would. I decided on the latter, hoping to offer something to those trying to follow in my footholds.

Despite my “newb” status, I think I can offer a fair review for new and experienced climbers. Though Boulders gym has hosted the largest climbing comp in Wisconsin and hosts local comps regularly, such as the Halloween comp earlier this year (and was still selling t-shirts for both), it has an ambience that affirms a separation of clientele in ways that could limit one’s climbing experience. All the same, on the Wednesday night before Thanksgiving it was far busier than I expected it to be, something that could be attributed to both the sport’s popularity as well as the gym’s support of its climbing clientele.

(PHOTO: EFR topping out her second on-sight of the day)

THE GOOD

There were climbers of all ages when I was there, ranging in age from about five to seventy. The older clientele wasn’t limited to tie-in climbing, and one ambitious grey-haired old guy spent the hours we were there traversing the entire gym. Music choices were tame, mostly ‘70s rock. Children were well supervised for the most part, though a group of girls were left to clip in together in pairs as a frantic mom tried to keep her eye on those there for a birthday party.

Boulders Gym promotes itself as a parent-and-me climbing gym and a “great place for birthday parties.” It also supports women climbers by offering a women’s climbing club and by featuring area women climbers and supporting their comps.

But there were eight clip-in routes, and the majority of the top-climbs were for those with belay certification. I had all of those routes 'scented within an hour, all but one on-sight. Even with my "newb" status with just three months of climbing under my harness, I grew bored quickly. A boulder in the back of the gym was also reserved for those with belay certification and was stationed near a workout area with free weights, pegboards, fingerboards, and a punching bag.

Route difficulty was labeled labeled clearly, and they seemed designed to encourage climbers more than to frustrate them. There were many bouldering routes and bouldering areas - including a “problem cove” that was a busy center of activity.

For the belay certified, this gym would be a great place to spend an afternoon. As I walked the route areas and inspected the bouldering areas, I thought of my friends back in Boulder and how they would have laid waste to the place (figuratively speaking). It’s that “belay certified” thing that would, in the end, prove to be a fatal flaw in my climbing experience at Boulders, however.

(PHOTO: EFR standing on a penis)

THE BAD

Customer service at the gym was a bit of an oxymoron. Counter staff, despite my references to P’UP and a gym review, failed to answer basic questions. My requests for belay certification – all four of them – were met with doe-eyed stares and a repeating explanation of the auto-belay devices and how to clip into them.

The young woman at the counter took one look at me and immediately began to loosen the harness at all points. She seemed confused, and despite my assurances that I could adjust my own harness, she replied with, “I hope it’s big enough.” I thought of other women my age carrying a bit of extra weight wanting to try climbing, and then wondered if that harness moment alone would scare them off.

The Petzl rental harnesses left a lot to be desired. They did not adjust easily, and tended to cinch up in all the wrong places. My climbing partner for the day, Brad, is very thin. Together we represented the opposing ends of the fitness spectrum, but he too found the harness unreasonably uncomfortable, difficult to adjust, and too short between the waist and legs.

We both struggled with that aspect of the fit – something I don’t have to worry about at my home climbing base at the UNL Rec center. Those harnesses can be adjusted to accommodate larger people. Since the clerk made it clear she was giving me the largest harness they had, it seemed reasonable to assume it couldn’t accommodate even a fit, 225-pound football player, either. The necessary room just wasn’t there, and the strapping was unreasonably narrow.

The gym’s selection in harnesses alone could be limiting its access to possible clientele. Those seeking to explore indoor climbing to assist their fitness and weight loss goals need to buy their own harnesses in advance – something difficult to do without previous climbing experience. I’m classifying this gym as one for those considered at “normal” weight or “slightly overweight.”

The rental chalk bag was a deep IV bag, and too deep as far as I was concerned. Accessing chalk while on the rock required yoga-like stretching and coordination (both of which I have, but that’s not the point). Shallower bags were for sale, but not for rent.

Though the gym’s website and posted policies indicated all I had to do was ask to be belay certified, when I asked I was denied in the typical Midwestern way: with silence or diversion. The clerk seemed to think that clipping in was “my best option,” but each time she said that she would look me up and down. I explained that I had attended a belay certification course in Nebraska, that I climb four days a week, and belay far more experienced climbers than myself. I even reminded her three times that I was writing a review of the facilities.

Unfortunately, she just repeated herself without asking for assistance from the manager or even taking me over to the belay certification area to let me pass (or fail). I found this really interesting as a rhetoric theorist, but really frustrating as a customer. I’m sure that if I had opened a can of E.F.R. rhetorical fury, I could have had my way. However, that isn’t the point, really.

The point: Without belay certification, the climbing experience was limited to the kind a kid could get at a birthday party. Two-thirds of the gym was off-limits to me. The bouldering boulder was for only those with belay certification, as were the more exciting (and interesting to me) top-rope routes.

When I asked the final time for belay certification, I was told that Brad would have to be certified too – even though I didn’t want him to be my belay on top rope. I learned my “new guy belay” lesson last week, and had hoped to meet some Boulders regulars.

(PHOTO: Brad, my future son-in-law, on his first ascent)

All I could do was clip in, climb around, and traverse (though no one explained that option – that I learned from another customer). I wandered around the climbing areas forbidden to me, though, to note the route-setting and difficulty levels.

Overall, their top rope routes were rather short compared to those I’ve seen at the Boulder Rock Club in Boulder, Colo and those at the UNL Rec Center. Ratings were tied closer to holds than to anything else, such as hold distance and moves: The higher the rating, the smaller the holds. However, that isn’t to say routes weren’t challenging.

THE UGLY

First of all, the customer service needs work. There weren’t staffers on the floor to assist those with belay certification who came alone. Considering how large the gym is, and how it has many nooks, it seemed reasonable to expect some assistance/observation by staff. Also, the price is a bit steep considering a day-pass at Vertical Endeavors in St. Paul runs a chill $13, just a nickel more than a Stone Age Gym pass in Albuquerque, NM. Though Vertical Endeavors in Warrenville, IL will set you back $15, it makes up for the cost with amenities Boulders Climbing Gym doesn't have, like locker rooms and showers. All three of the cheaper alternatives, by the way, have significantly larger climbing surfaces and square footage.

Within the bouldering area, it seemed that there wasn’t enough space between the wall and the ledge of the entry. If you fell, you had few places to go. Though the climbing arena was outfitted with exceptionally deep foam flooring, even that was problematic at the steps leading to it. The riser distance between the step and the foam floor was taller than expected, and the floor gave a good inch.

(PHOTO: It turns out this is what a left calcaneal fracture looks like)

It was this design flaw that ended my climbing time at the gym. While stepping down from the step to the foam, I fell, and suffered a calcaneal fracture of my left foot. Though I face-planted within sight of the staff, no one came to my assistance or to protect the interest of the gym. I suppose this has something to do with the contract one signs in order to climb, the one that says, “Climbing is inherently dangerous.” That may be true, but steps within the facility should at least be to standard construction code. I find it hilarious that I climbed for nearly two hours without incident, but biffed trying to get a sip of water. I had hoped to traverse so I could get my $16 worth, but in the end just hobbled to the car, grinning.

(PHOTO: Have I mentioned how much I love climbing?)

Just as well, really. I think Christina was bored out of her mind. Don’t get me wrong: Despite “the good, the bad, and the ugly” I had a good day of climbing, probably my best. I reached the top of all but one route (one with a freakin’ crag). I knew the skills I had gained at my home gym were paying off, and I was confident in my climbing. I made the best of it, but there wasn’t a moment when I didn’t feel as though I should have brought my own harness and just give up on the review.

I’d still recommend the Boulders Climbing Gym to anyone with some time to spend in Madison, Wisc., but I wouldn’t make a special trip from out of state to go there. I wouldn’t bother with a trip from Milwaukee, either. There are a couple of gyms in the Milwaukee metro area that can deliver at least what Boulders offers. And hey, Vertical Endeavors in Warrenville (Chicago metro) is just about as close to Milwaukee as Boulders is.

But you know, I’m sure Boulders is a great place to throw a birthday party.

PHYSICS SUCKS

2009-11-22T23:00:00.000-08:00

(PHOTO: The right end of a banner by Pablo Piccasso, "Guernica" 1937)

Well, it finally happened. While climbing Sunday afternoon, I asked a fellow climber, Zach The New Guy (our climbing community has a lot of Zachs in it), for a belay. He's been climbing a bit longer than myself, always shows up with his buddy, Dave, and seemed to know what he was doing. I was projecting the "Cold Hands" route, a 5.7 masterpiece in the corner of our wall, requiring stemming, smearing, and all kinds of nouns turned into verbs.

The route begins in an alcove, and one must learn to use the features on and off the wall, including a nice little foot hold chipped out of the brick - the fringe of our wall's construction. I've worked really hard to get out from under the alcove, reach above it, and begin that corner ascent. When I left the house today, I had high hopes of completing this route and adding it to my "Notches in My Harness" list.

But Karma is a cruel mistress and Fate a miserable thing. My success was not to be. I blame a few things: 1) I had skipped lunch inadvertently, while working on student papers; 2) I came to the route cold, without doing the now boring 5.6 warm-up; and 3) An overall sense of my head not being in "the game."

Even as I began my ascent, having gained a sense of the rhythm required for the first five moves (I tend to think of climbing as a vertical dance - each route has a beat of its own), I was on autopilot. That was my first mistake. I was thinking about the paper I have to write for the graduate theory course I'm taking, about Fredrich Hegel, Nietzsche, and Jacques Derrida. Philosopher kings held royal court in my mind, and I knew I was in trouble when I instinctively used my hip to smear, to gain any sort of leverage I could.

Both hands in a nice bucket of a hold, hip wedged against the lip of the alcove, and reaching for the next hold, I couldn't do it. Not a huge deal to jump from a foot above the bouldering line, but to sort of plummet without purpose kinda sucks. The trouble was, my belay hadn't taken up the requisite slack. The rope was loose and though he tried to spare me the inevitable, I hit the mat hard - really hard. And fast.

Don't hate the new guy: I should have told him to take in the slack, and I would have had my head been on straight.

Fortunately, I hit the ground feet first before falling back on my butt. Unfortunately, I bounced a good three times creating a marvelous cloud of chalk in my wake. If it hadn't been so damn funny to me, the bouncing, the cloud, the fact I had skidded to a stop on my butt in front of a bunch of people who were looking on, slack-jawed, I would have been scared out of my mind. A quick ass-essment let me know I hadn't broken anything but my pride. Even as Zach The New Guy rushed up to apologize, even as he felt the first pangs of responsibility, I howled with laughter.

I don't think, in retrospect, that my laughter was maniacal ... but it could have been.

Not many can drop E.F.R. on her ass and live to tell about it. So I'll consider Zach's current lively state as proof I have a charitable heart. All the same, my back and neck are killing me now. I held office hours at the Coffee House, then I took a hot shower when I got home. I iced my lower back before putting on the heat. I can already feel the stiffness settling in, and this makes me nervous.

I'm leaving for Wisconsin in a couple of days, and have scheduled a climbing day at Madison's Boulders Gym. The plan: Climb as much as I can and review the facilities for P'UP. Boulders has 8,000 square feet of simulated rock routes and I'm eager to see them. I want to see how I fare at a place outside of the Rec, and put my limited skill to the test.

But if I've jacked my back, that plan could go up in anti-inflammatory gel caplets. I have no choice but to take-er-easy until then.

I'm really bummed out. Not only did the climbing day suck for me (the rest of the day was shot - I couldn't shake the fall), I didn't get to project the 5.8. I've been making great progress with that route, even as it demands so much grunting and power-thrust happiness. I'm training hard because I have a goal: I want to go on an April trip to Shelf Road in Colorado. I want to go, even though I know I'm going to have to work on that whole peeing outside business.

I did learn some important lessons today. I'll stick to my trusted belays for now, won't climb unless I'm totally focused, and I will make sure I've eaten so I don't feel so sacked. Rookie mistakes, all, but mine all the same.

But hey, that's what I am. And a good fall had to happen eventually. I guess it's a good thing my first solid fall was at the gym, and that my coping strategy for fear is laughter. That's kinda cool, really. I guess it's my inner self demanding of the universe, "Bring it on, wha-ha-ha-ha!"

Or, I've lost my mind. Too early to tell.

IN LOVE AND UNASHAMED

2009-11-22T11:42:00.000-08:00

If I had to describe how climbing makes me feel, I couldn't do so without music. As I finish up my work for the day and head off to the climbing wall, I often hear Aretha Franklin. I know this isn't normal, but thankfully there isn't a cure. Everything I have come to feel about climbing is reflected in her song, "Natural Woman."

"When my soul was in the lost and found, you came along to claim it," pretty much sums it up. And now that I have such a feeling of intense love and respect for something I do, I pity the next love interest who comes along. A man, it seems, will have to at the very least, make me feel as good about him as I do climbing.

Yeah, I know it's a tall order. And yes, it may even be ridiculous, all things considered. That being said, I think it's good to (finally) have standards. I want a man in my life who can challenge me, present opportunities to reach beyond my own limits, and be there to celebrate with me my achievements. And I want someone who will welcome the opportunity for me to do the same for him. I've been told far too often that I'm "intimidating." Now that I've been investing in climbing, and the climbing community has been investing in me, I'm thinking my personality might be a 5.11 - intimidating, but totally worth the struggle.

Before climbing, I always thought of myself as a self-sufficient woman. And that may have been true, but I wasn't a self-loving woman. Climbing has helped me to see my body as more than a container. It's a miracle, really. Having any part of my physique firm up at forty seems like a Biblical sort of thing, like Moses coming down the mountain with the Ten Commandments or Jesus hosting a fish and bread potluck for the multitudes. It's as if climbing helped me to "get sanctified," to find something outside of myself that hones and perfects what's inside.

"We're all sensitive people, with so much to give" as Marvin Gaye sings. Understand me, Sugar, this is prophetic shizznit.

If you climb, then you know what I'm talkin' about. I'm not even good yet. I have yet to climb real rock. And yet ... here I am, feeling as if I'm about to burst. And I can't decide if it's climbing that has done this directly, or if it has simply helped me to bring out all the best parts of myself I'd been hiding away. I suppose, really, it doesn't matter.

What does matter, I think, is that I have found a way to experience love, real love. I walk with pep in my step, and I smile far more often than I frown. I've come to appreciate people in new ways, their vulnerability and imperfections. And I've come to appreciate myself, my clown nature and alleged immaturity, as a facet of my passion for life. No other sport has opened so many doors into my soul, and I'm no longer thinking of myself as a dated artifact. I'm alive, dammit. Let the archeologists have my bones another day. For now, I choose to fully live and love.

You don't have to hold on so tight to your construction of self that you become permanently affixed to a perspective or position. Climbing has helped me to value the fall, and this reminds me of a song by South:

Feed me something
We'll go back to the start
Take pride of place
Understand our reasons
A photograph taken at the time when
Confidence won't up and leave

So loosen your hold
Though you might be frightened
Release or be caught
If this be the right thing
Unable by thought
To look what the tide brings in
Look what the tide brings in

Feed me something
We'll go back to the start
Take pride of place
Understand our reasons
A photograph taken at the time when
Confidence won't up and leave

So loosen your hold
Though you might be frightened
Release or be caught
If this be the right thing
Unable by thought
To look what the tide brings in
Look what the tide brings in

So loosen your hold
Though you might be frightened
Release or be caught
If this be the right thing
Unable by thought
To look what the tide brings in

Climbing feeds me something, makes me feel found, and man, all I can say is, "Let's get it on." Get on that rock. Get on that route. Climb up with all you've got. You'll meet yourself there, a self you never knew before.

SPREADING THE VIRUS

2009-11-20T09:03:00.000-08:00

It's been a great two weeks for P'UP. Not only have I started projecting a 5.8 Steph Laudenklos (profiled here) named, "Erica's Song," I have had the pleasure of sharing my enthusiasm for climbing with several of my students.

Tana and Rachel, both students in my "Writing and Communities" course, took up my open invitation to try climbing. I didn't have my camera with me when Tana, a former gymnast, got her climb on. She ascended four routes wearing tennis shoes, and despite the struggle, found herself in love with the sport. She got her certification and is now a regular at the wall. Rachel came to the wall just this Tuesday.

Rachel, a former HS athlete and power-lifter, showed up this week to give climbing a try. Nervous and edgy, she faced down some old fears.

"When I was a kid," she said, "my sisters could climb trees and I was too scared. I can't believe I'm doing this."

As Josh tied her in, she beamed with both fear and intrigue.

"I don't know if I can do this," she said.

"Honey, if I can, you can," I replied.

Rachel blazed a rainbow path up the wall, as Josh offered beta to keep her going. At times, she claimed, "I can't do this," and we replied, "Yes you can!" (Oh, who knew Obama would become a prophet?)

As she ascended, and with just a third of the route left, her arms and hands began to shake. "I can't do it!" she wailed.

"Just sit back and take a rest," Josh suggested. "Shake out your arms for a minute."

After a thirty-seconds of shaking out her arms and self-empowerment, she took on the rest of that wall. She hit that last hold and touched the bar above the route.

Victorious and in disbelief, she came on down. As Josh untied the danish with cheese, Rachel beamed. Her energy and self-respect resonated.

"I can't believe it!" she said, grinning. "That was hard!" she said with a big smile.

As we talked afterward, she looked down at her hands.

"You know," she said, "when I was power-lifting, I thought callouses were the coolest thing for a girl to have."

She seemed to be seeing a forgotten self as she looked to her palms. I smiled.

"This is so awesome."

"Yeah, you did a great job. Are you coming back?"

"Oh yeah!"

Just last night, two of my freshmen students, Travis and Bill, showed up to climb. Travis had a tough time of it, but he's coming back. Bill, a student returning home to Delaware at the end of this semester to attend a university there, won't be. However, he thinks he may have to take up climbing at home, on his beloved East Coast.

After the young men had climbed around and discovered it was harder than it looked, they too were smiling. As they took off their harnesses and rushed to get back to a study group, they too seemed to vibrate with excitement.

"You coming back, Travis?" I asked, smiling.

"Definitely."

In the past couple of weeks, I've seen how enthusiasm is contagious. I've watched young women who had forgotten or set aside their athletic lives, reconnect with a part of themselves. I've watched young men learn that there's something valuable about the process, the struggle, climbing represents. This process reflects my teaching of process as a pedagogical tool. What I valued most, I think, in the moments I spent with students, is the ability to point to a tangible, physical process and explain how it replicates or affirms the intellectual process I've been trying to help them to understand all semester.

It was beautiful to me, that connection between the mental and the physical. I think that's what keeps me coming back to the wall, too.

As I project the 5.8 (made it past the bouldering line last night), and negotiate stemming on that projected "Cold Hands" 5.7, I'm learning to respect my body in new ways. I'm not as weak or awkward as I once believed. I'm getting stronger. I'm beginning to understand my potential as a human being.

My love for climbing is infectious, I believe, and helping others to catch the virus has become an example of prophetic love. I am a teacher of self-appreciation, of self-centered exploration with community-wide implications. Climbing is helping me to name all of the methods I use in the classroom, and those methods are bleeding into the work I do at the wall. Someday, I hope to be a climbing writer, the sort who takes off all summer to write of rock and daydreaming, of the earth and humanity.

Until then, I'll keep training at the rec, sharing all of myself I can, and marveling at this truth: Sharing your enthusiasm and self-confidence helps others to do the same. It draws them out of themselves and back in again, as they reconnect with parts of their soul they thought they had lost. It's the best kind of inquiry, and it's beautiful to watch.

If I were to send you, dear reader, a postcard it would read, "Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here."

But I'd really mean it. Some things you have to see for yourself. And man, you should see the human beauty I'm seeing at the wall every day.

EVOLUTION

2009-11-17T21:29:00.001-08:00

Hanging out with the climbing gang, I've noticed there's a somewhat substantial sector of the climbing population that has developed alternative cleanliness standards. Some have become a bit "squiggly about the edges," emitting an earthy pungency while wearing clothes that are, admittedly, routinely hung on their bedroom floors. The most enthusiastic climbers I've met have hairstyles that have a perfect balance of the unruly nonconformist and unwashed.

I call their big, curly, greasy, floppy, or stringy coiffed mops, "Neanderthal chic."

At first, I thought these practices reflected a ethnographical connection between the land and the (wo)man. You know, the closure one gets to nature, the more natural one becomes. I attributed this earthy mystique to nature itself, to the love of rock and scenery one must certainly develop while ascending to great heights.

But in my humble two months of climbing, I've discovered it's far more practical than that. Always looking for theories, I missed the practices.

I, too, get a bit squiggly, and it has nothing to do with the great outdoors. I'm not making a political statement, or imagining a life free from chemical interventions, like deodorant. Though it's true that I'm becoming more lax in my shower schedule and more tolerant of undone dishes, my motives have nothing to do with saving the earth.

I just don't want to get my hands wet.

Cleanliness may bring one closer to Godliness, but washing dishes and showering every day make the callouses on my hands far too tender. They rip open, give way, while projecting routes. I've had several days in the last two weeks when my hands hurt so badly, I had to stop climbing far earlier in the night than I expected. In fact, I'm rather disappointed in my milquetoast hands at the moment. I'm trying to toughen them up.

As a blossoming wall weasel I'm discovering, to my horror, that all the rhetoric surrounding women's hands as soft, as worthy of protection and in need of a fantastic moisturizer to keep them looking youthful, is a bunch of crap. If I want to climb the way my heart wants to, I'm going to have to give up my insecurities about age and agelessness. Shit.

And like other climbers I know, while contemplating an evening out, I've stood before the shower stall and weighed the need to be clean with the need to climb later. "If I wash up now, my hands are going to be hamburger later," I think. Nobody bothered to tell me that becoming a climber could mean becoming a proponent of the "whore's bath" - and I'm amused by this secret bond we share.

Today, for example, is a climbing day for me. It's morning, and I should be embarking on my toilette routine. Instead, I'm sitting here, weighing the benefits of squeaky clean v. protecting my callouses. "Screw it, I'll shower after I climb" has become a mantra of mine, and when the goal is to climb every day I wonder if I'll ever find time to shower at all.

Though one must certainly take great care of one's grundle and/or bandt, and women certainly must avoid the Pike's Place Fish Market complex, climbing and bathing present an awkward paradox all the same.

Before climbing, I was a home spa girl. I loved shower gels and lotions, back scrubbers and anything that made me feel pampered. Now that I've been flailing about on the wall, however, I'm looking at all the products in my shower caddy and considering them obstacles to my overall goals. My bottle of sandalwood rose shower gel is no longer decadent. It's a lure to tender skin failure. Bath and Body Works, my once happy place, is the devil's workshop.

So what's a girl like me to do?

Well, I'm going to shower this morning but only because I stink. But I know as soon as I get on the wall today, I'll regret it. This seems to be the daily dilemma, and today's no different. While I'm harnessed in and working on that overhang 5.7 later today, I'll admire the Neanderthal chic, their swagger and calloused attitudes toward bathing and hope that someday, I'll be like them.

ROCKIN' THE POETRY WORLD

2009-11-13T09:19:00.000-08:00

You know, I'm not just a climbing novice.

But I've got big news: The Split This Rock Poetry Festival has invited yours truly to present a panel with colleagues. The festival is in Washington, D.C. and it looks like it's going to be a smashing good time. Split This Rock is, at its heart, an anti-war event aimed at reclaiming language and our collective potential. Poets from all over the country come to this festival that is a mixture between an academic conference (with workshops and presenters) and a public protest (such as the march to Lafayette Park across from the White House).

The organization is supported by grants, and this year it will be filming a documentary about the festival itself. For now, you can see videos on YouTube, such as this one:

For the 2010 Split This Rock Festival, I will be presenting with Madeline Wiseman and Aimee Adellard titled, "Fatty Girls, Imaginary Cocks, and Vaginas Built Like Bookstores: A Workshop on Writing the Activist Body." We're thinking the title alone got us into the festival, but we're planning on helping other poets who want to take their interior poetic lives into the public in hopes of affecting social change.

In this sense, I'm taking on work people like Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Allen Ginsberg sponsored during Vietnam, and did in the later years of their careers, long after the Beats were considered history. I've been thinking about this more and more as I consider the curricula goals for my section of the workshop, as well as how this speaking out and up work will fortify me as a writer, poet, and climber.

I've also been thinking about how sacred Lafayette Park is as a site for democratic activity. It is the ground in Washington where activists of all sorts demonstrate, and where, I'm sure, the Department of Homeland Security and the FBI gather photographs and documentation of those who show up to exercise their First Amendment rights.

But I've been thinking about Ferlinghetti's book, Poetry As Insurgent Art, and these lines in particular:

"The state of the world calls out for poetry to save it."

"Words can save you where guns can't."

It's not that I've always been a peace activist, or even a poet. It's not that I've always picked up my democratic responsibilities as a citizen of the United States. It's not even that I've always believed in the power and reach of my own words. I've never been to the East Coast. I've never been to Washington. It has always been a mythical place, something I've seen on television and wondered if it existed at all. I'm just a woman learning to live, write, and climb and seeing where that takes her.

The airline ticket alone is going to be around $350. The hotel rates are staggering, even if William Shatner asks on Priceline.com, "Who's ready to take a ride on the deal stallion?" Democracy, it seems, will come at a cost - as it always must, I suppose.

So for the next few months I'm going to enter every poetry contest offering a kitty I can. I'm going to have to step-up my efforts at fundraising, and I'm thinking about a bake sale (however quirky it may seem). This may become an "E.F.R. Goes to Washington" sort of thing, and I'll admit this: I've thought of Jimmy Stewart in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington more than once since receiving my invitation to the festival.

I'm pretty sure Jimmy Stewart didn't go there to yell, "Vagina!" at people, but still ...

As a poet, this is a pretty big deal. I'm taking my work far from Nebraska, way out into the public sphere, and doing that work in a very respected poetry festival among celebrated poets. And I'm thinking of women and men who have gone before me, of those people I respect who have taken the risk to say out loud what their soul needed to say. I'm humbled and excited, intimidated and encouraged.

Performance poetry, embodying the activist poet, teaching others to let the words seep into their bones and perform instead of recite a poem ... all of this is spinning in my head as I write today. Or as Peter Gabriel sings: "Ill be a big noise with all the big boys ..." (Seriously, watch this old video ... it so fits my story!)

As exciting as this new challenge is, you have to know that I'm already trying to figure out how to find climbing opportunities in the D.C. metro area. I'm looking at Earth Trek's facility in Rockville, MD (a quick train ride from D.C.), and SportRock in Alexandria, VA. The latter is in the middle of a remodeling project to make it more competitive with Earth Trek's gyms, so I'm thinking I should check both of them out in order to write a fair and balanced review.

I love this justification, of course, because that gives me license to monkey about in the name of P'UP.

I'm thinking too about the ways in which climbing is shaping my approach to writing and public performance of that writing. I don't know if I'll get the chance to climb in D.C. or not, but I do know that when I take the stage or give my workshop, all I've learned through climbing about patience, personal achievement, and moxie will be with me. I'm thinking, too, that I might shoot a documentary myself ... more on that later.

EPIC(UREAN) FAIL

2009-11-07T22:21:00.000-08:00

(PHOTO: New computer cam tries to capture my Cheshire Grin. Unfortunately, bad cake had paralyzed my mouth).

I had hoped to post a new recipe for a whole-wheat apple spice cake today.

Unfortunately, my first attempt is now a brick of healthy fodder on the bottom shelf of my refrigerator. It looks good, but something went awry in the preparation.

Maybe I’ve created a muffin recipe – a stay-with-you-all-day muffin. Maybe, well, maybe one shouldn’t try to use all whole-wheat flour instead of a flour blend. Whatever the case may be, it’s clear to me now that I’m no “Ace of Cakes.”

All I know is that a cake isn’t supposed to remind you of bran flakes, or roll on your tongue like Ready-Mix in a cement mixer. Cake isn’t supposed to dehydrate your face.

I may have just invented a cure for acne. On my second bite, when my mouth went bong-dry, I felt a pull from deep within my pores. I’ve had a glass of milk and two glasses of water since my first 2 by 2 inch square of apple spice disaster.

Drinking that much liquid after a piece of this epicurean experiment was like pulling the rip-cord on a life raft.

Despite this culinary misdeed, I’ve had an awesome day. I met Ryann and Schnook at the wall this afternoon, and enjoyed a couple of good hours of climbing and belaying. I knew it was time to quit while ascending my last climb of the day, when I forgot I had feet. It was as if I were dragging myself up the wall, sort of like when a dog hustles her hindquarters across shag carpet.

It wasn’t pretty.

A good fifteen feet after the bouldering line, my feet flailed about like flags flapping in the breeze. I looked down to Ryann, and yelled just one word:

“Dinner!”

We packed up and headed for our bikes. It was a delicious fall evening, crackling with excitement as Husker Nation scurried about campus in preparation for the showdown with Oklahoma. It was dark out, and I realized then that I had forgotten my halogen lamps. Stupid Daylight Savings time.

Riding hard, passing football fans and drunk idiots, I welcomed the chilled November night into my lungs. Two weeks ago I began the “step-down” smoking cessation program my doctor recommended. I can already feel a difference in my body and my mind. Even so, habitual self-destruction is harder to give up than one might think.

Addiction, even to something as pedestrian as nicotine, shapes and distorts who you are. It's difficult to imagine you and your life without it. It's difficult to admit you're entitled to good things, like love, or life. It's even more challenging to face down your inadequacies and self-destructive nature in a public sphere, with your life "Out There" for anyone to see.

P'UP, though, isn't some narcissistic endeavor. It is not so much a projector of my life as it is a microscope. Even the small things, stuff that doesn't seem related to climbing at all, is beneath the scope of the project. So here I am, thinking about all the years I wasted five minutes at a time, smoking to calm the uncertain beast that is, when matching my feet and plotting my approach, humbled and silent.

All my disappointments, the hurt, all those times I didn't get what I needed ... they all get left on the ground, stamped out and discarded, like a cigarette. I love that. So two weeks in to the new cessation program I’m making progress. Nov. 30 is the “no butts, baby, it’s-all-over-but-the-cryin’ deadline.

But it ain’t gonna be a walk in the park, and it definitely won’t be a piece of cake. Thank God.

PROFILE: STEPHANIE LAUDENKLOS

2009-11-05T21:54:00.000-08:00

Some say she's awesome, others simply state the obvious: "Steph is a badass." Though both distinctions are accurate, this UNL Climbing Club President is dedicated to her work as a climber and a community representative.

Laudenklos has an infectious enthusiasm for the sport she came to in January of 2008. Her background as a high school pole vaulter and hurdler only helped her to make the best of her climbing passion. She attributes her foray into the sport to "the boy of the time," but it's clear she comes to it on her own terms.

With climbing, for Laudenklos, it was love "on-sight."

Thirteen years of dance, 8 years of gymnastics, and her recent work in yoga have honed her into an aggressive yet graceful climber. Watching her ascents at the wall or on the rock, one comes to understand the true meaning of "grace under pressure." She's intuitive and calculating in her route assessments, yet delightfully sensible and logical in her approach. She never flails, wails, or bails with even a hint of self-incrimination. For Laudenklos, it's the quiet and focused challenge of pursuing her personal best that makes climbing both a challenge and an affirmation of what she values most in life: Her faith, the people climbing has brought to her life, and fun.

One shouldn't, however, confuse this fun, friendly, and God-lovin' graceful rock chick for a softy. Her competitive nature and natural gift in the sport have made her, in less than two years, a formidable foe on the Plains climbing circuits. Laudenklos won two climbing comps her first year in the sport, the UNO Bouldering Intermediate division in 2008, and the Climb Iowa bouldering Advanced division 2008. Just this year she placed 2nd at the UNL Sport Climbing Comp Advanced Division 2009.

The 21 year-old UNL senior has maintained a grueling academic schedule while working at a local veterinary clinic. In October, she submitted her applications to veterinary programs across the country. Her aspiration to become a veterinarian has put her in a very competitive professional school arena this fall. But deep down, this Columbus, Nebraska native wouldn't have it any other way. It's the challenges in life that keep her going.

Despite the pressure of school and working a serious job, Laudenklos has come into her own as a climber. To her, climbing is a mental and spiritual manifestation of deeply held personal beliefs because to climb is to also meditate, to focus, one the best parts of self and God.

Steph Laudenklos at Penitente Canyon, Colorado.
(Photographer: Doug Lintz)

"Just being outdoors in general is an ultimate connection with God and His creation," Laudenklos said, "So climbing gives me that opportunity to get out and worship in that way."

Laudenklos cites the "very liberal and karma-believing" nature of her climbing community as yet another influence in her overall faith. Though the multi-faceted spiritual and religious views of others make what Laudenklos terms, "evangelizing" difficult, the diversity only affirms her belief in both God and her ability to be a good listener to others embarking on spiritual journeys of their own.

"I have been amazed at how many people I have met through climbing that feel comfortable talking to me about their spiritual struggles because they know how strong my faith is," Laudenklos said, "So in a way it's given me yet another way to be close to God through His two greater creations: mankind and nature."

But man and God aren't her only inspirations. Laudenklos, when asked about her climbing heroes, nearly swooned when she mentioned Internationally renowned climber Steph Davis (click: High Infatuation). In Davis, Laudenklos said she sees "a bit of herself" and hopes to someday match Davis' contributions to the sport.

Serious and silly, kind and competitive, Laudenklos seems to be poised to pursue this goal. Though she waits now with a bit of nail-biting for veterinary program admission letters, her uncertainty is assuaged by her steadfast commitment to climbing as "a life-long sport." It's in this commitment that she continues to inspire other women climbers at UNL, including the out-of-shape newbies such as myself.

Laudenklos said she fantasizes about climbing in Spain someday, and hopes to deep-water solo in Mallorca like those featured in the film, Perfecto:

With a smile, Laudenklos thinks of this dream with her signature move: unflinching honesty and sensibility.

"I really want to boulder around in my swimsuit," she said.

Fair enough. No matter where her veterinary studies take her, it seems climbing will continue to be the glue that holds this young, inspiring climber together. Keep an eye out for this rising talent. She's going to be rockin' the climbing world for years to come.

HANDY

2009-10-30T22:14:00.001-07:00

Take my advice: If anyone ever offers you a shoulder and declares, "Hit me!" - don't.

A very tiny bone in my wrist, like the one pictured above, is causing me some difficulty more than a year after its initial injury. I'd love to blame old age on what is, essentially, my own stupidity. On most days, I don't mind the ache. It's cool to have a reminder of old friends and boisterous evenings rambling through downtown bars. But lately, as I entered the every-other-day climbing schedule, my wrist has been a pain in my ass.

It seems I didn't wear the cast or the brace long enough way back when, so my doc tells me this thing is gonna cause me "trouble from time to time." That time came yesterday when my wrist decided, halfway through a 5.6 ascent I've done many times before, that it just didn't feel like doing anything anymore. Better still, I had been so focused on managing the ache I forgot about the condition of the flesh covering bone. After I'd been lowered and had taken my place on the bench, I looked down and noticed two rather deep blisters.

Apparently, my enthusiasm for P'UP is a bit beyond my physical reality. Don't get me wrong: This too is part of learning to climb. Though many weekend athletes my age would just don a brace and keep going in denial of both age and wear, I'm more of a realist. I believe my body is a great communicator. It tells me, through cravings, when I need to eat more vegetables and proteins. It also lets me know when I'm tired (first sign: Intermittent babbling and really old jokes). So this ache in my wrist, I think, is my body's way of letting me know it's okay to take a few days off.

Walking from the health center to a local pub to meet friends, I thought about hands and the stories they can tell. I've always been intrigued by hands, focused on them when meeting new people, to see how they're shaped, how they gesture (or don't), and the ways people adorn their hands with jewelry. My favorites have always told stories of the work they do, or gesture wildly and with enthusiasm. But I've also watched the deliberate, still hands of quiet, thinking men as they've reached for a pint or a pen and found them captivating.

I remember every hand that ever hurt me. I remember every hand that ever held my own. I was thinking about this as I stepped onto a sidewalk wet with fall rain and shining with the night. Neon signs reflected the path I walked. Looking down and thinking about my own hands and their stories of writer, painter, mother, cook, and poet I noticed a small, dull triangle floating on a puddle. Stooping to pick it up, I noticed a hint of metallic gold at its center.

In the middle of blue and black marbled plastic were the imprinted words, "Fender Thin." Someone had dropped this guitar pick, and I pondered those hands I had never met. I stashed the pick in my pocket and plodded on, head full of words, perhaps the beginning of a poem, musing night and its wanderers.

Half a block later, I noticed a shiny silver trinket on the sidewalk outside the Rococo Theatre. It was a charm bracelet, the sort of silver Celtic symbol sensitive indie types wear - I've seen them around the wrists of lanky young men with horn-rimmed glasses at the Coffee House - you know, the kind of guys who get tattoos in Sanskrit to prove they're deep thinkers. I looked up and down the street to see if the owner could be nearby. There was no one but me walking about in the rain, so I pocketed the bracelet and let it click and tick in my pocket with that Fender pick.

At the pub, I sat down with friends. When my pint arrived, I held it just to let the chill sink into my flesh. Looking at my right hand, its blisters, and focusing on my wrist, I decided I liked the story my hands were telling. Six weeks ago, I didn't think I'd be sitting around with hands, raw from climbing. I didn't think I'd manage a full ascent before December, let alone "red point." And though I miss, on occasion, my once-delicate, manicured fingers, I doubt I'll ever go back to the file and paint, the feminine ritual of glossing my fingertips.

(Photo: Pre-P'UP hands)

Okay, so for now they're pansy hands, just learning to handle the wear-and-tear of a dream. But someday, my hands are going to tell an epic tale of ascension and discovery. They will testify to the power of rock and will. In the meantime, they'll heal. Tomorrow, I'm baking my contribution to a Halloween celebration. It's the first costume party I've been to in at least ten years. I spent two weeks putting my costume together, and I'm ready to step on out and have a good time. I don't think I would have dared to disco in costume before P'UP, but something I can't quite name is changing inside me.

I can't decide if it's self-confidence or a truce. I can't call it peace of mind, even as it comforts, because it sets my mind aflame with implications and consequences. I've spent a lifetime "stalling for sometime," holding myself back, thwarting my own potential in my personal life. In my working life, I've done quite the opposite but even success can be a hiding place. Maybe I'm just bursting forth from my own long winter. Maybe my soul cried out into the Karmic universe and heard nothing but the silent truth that it was time.

I don't really know. But sitting here, looking at a bracelet and a pick now on my desk, thinking about hands, I've decided I can hold my own. Over the next few days, as my body recovers, I'll think about that 5.7 route. Even as I gyrate to bad '90s pop and suck down "Spooky Punch" at a party, I'll be thinking about Sunday's climbing hope. And really, looking down at my typing hands now, maybe that's what P'UP is all about: hope, the sort of thing born from a challenge that has become far more personal than I ever thought it would.

COMMUNITY

2009-10-27T21:24:00.000-07:00

(Photo: Steph and Caitlin discuss matters of social importance)

Until recently, I've been a lone soul. Though I hold my own in large social groups, deep down, I've never preferred that chaos to the one-on-one visits with friends. Climbing has brought more people in my life than I can count, and the sense of community has been both immediate and refreshing. My academic life has been somewhat isolating, and over the years I've spent a fair amount of cash making exodus-style road trips to Boulder to visit friends there. Between those visits, however, have been long stretches of lonely hours, shoulders bent, nose stuck in books.

(Photo: The bench fills up on Climbing Club nights)

This evening, I attended my first "climbing club" night, a two-hour climbing social with a trip to our favorite pizza and beer bar afterward. I "red pointed" for the first time, climbing clean and without beta, that "Flip-Flop Climb" route I didn't quite finish on Sunday. Having laid waste to the 5.6 routes, I'll be taking on a 5.7 corner route on Thursday. Our club refers to a "red point" climb for both lead and non-lead climbs, so don't be too impressed. I wasn't lead climbing (today).

(Photo: Ryann gets her nerd on while Papa Al eats pizza)

I also used my new harness and loved getting home without the usual bruises across my thighs the Rec's harnesses have given me. I'm discovering it's the little things, like decent padding and a good fit, that matter. Yesterday, to celebrate my Sunday success, I bought myself a charming medium chalk bag - a welcome replacement for the too-deep "I.V. bag" style that came with my harness package. Just a six weeks into this experiment and I'm becoming a "gear ho" - spending far too much time cruising the Internet for steals and deals. I've just broken in my pair of La Sportiva Nago shoes, and I'm already checking out the end of season bargains, like the Evolve closeouts. A host of hikers and climbers are on sale, even the aggressive Talons are on sale for $49, a significant bargain considering the shoes retailed for $125 earlier this year.

(Photo: Doug and Steph listen to climbing tales)

I'm not buying, though. Not this time around. When I start hookin' my heels, though, I might find just the right incentive for another expenditure (who needs groceries anyway?). Just this week I've had to replace my climbing pants. The old ones, both a pair of yoga stretch capri leggings and a pair of "boyfriend" jeans I dearly loved are now too big. I've lost a full dress size in just the last three weeks, something I didn't anticipate. In fact, when I walked into the store and found myself purchasing a regular size large instead of a plus size, I was rather shocked (however pleased). I haven't bought clothing from the regular women's department in more than ten years.

(Photo: Caitlin and Steven anchor the table)

I'd tout my weight loss numbers, but that's a violation of the Project Up goal. Ultimately, this project is about relearning body image and respect through activity and nutrition. It's not a diet or even a weight loss-centered effort. P'UP is an attempt to consider an new lifestyle and attitude. Whatever weight loss I have is a byproduct, not the focus, of this fun. So I don't bother to step on the scale. I figure the fit of my clothes will tell me everything I need to know.

Thanks to my climbing partner, Ryann, I was able to develop fingerboard skills my climbing daughter didn't know about. So on top of "smokin'" her boyfriend on the wall, I got to show her that her old mother had a few tricks up her sleeve. I think it's important to keep your teenagers on their toes.

"How in the hell did you learn about this when I didn't even know about it?" she demanded, hanging from the top of the fingerboard.

"What can I say?" I said, "When I couldn't get up, I learned to hang. I bouldered. Whatever I could do, I did."

"Dork."

"Jerk."

Ah, our mother-and-child bond is a loving one.

I then showed her how to do a hanging ab workout, and earned her (begrudging) respect. She couldn't say so, of course. The surest way to gage your impact on a teenage daughter: If you do something and she goes silent, you know you've rocked her world. After her boyfriend reclaimed his dignity by doing 15 pull ups from the fingerboard, they left and I shambled after the Climbing Club gang for a slice of pizza and a couple of pints.

(Photo: The gang unwinds with pizza and beer at Yia-Yia's)

Steph and I celebrated my red point route with a Guinness, talked shop, and shared stories. Jamie, an experienced climber I admire, tore up her hands on a 5.8. She showed me the blisters and open wounds, grinning. Pain is a funny thing among this group - we seem to celebrate our owies. It reminds me of my years as a competitive softball player, when bruises and scrapes were proof I had delivered. Now, as I wince holding my morning cup of coffee or slip into nirvana when holding a glass of ice water, I feel connected to all my climbing friends through the common bond of tender callouses.

And those stiff shoulders in the morning? The stiff forearms and aching wrists? Braggin' rights, baby.

Watching the club gang at Yia-Yia's, I realized how fortunate I was to fall into such a fine group of people. They're positive, affirming souls, the kind who help you celebrate both your small and big victories. They offer encouragement and advice, support and reminders that we're all learning to do this thing we call climbing. Never in my life have I met so many good people at once. Meeting such beautiful people has been an unexpected gift, and I doubt I'll ever feel the way I did last week. My biggest lesson this week, it turns out, was a focused examination of Self and Community. And all I had to do to make this progress was to shed my perspective, the limiting lens, and reach out to others.

I don't even know why it had once been so difficult. I only know that I am happier now than I've been in a long, long time.

Some of the women discussed a winter tour of indoor climbing gyms, a four-day weekend trip that would take us from Iowa to Missouri, then to Kansas City, and back to Lincoln. We're planning an "All Ladies" climbing night in November, and doing all we can to help our favorite femme fatale, Steph, keep her mind off of her pending vet school applications. This sense of community investment in each others' lives wasn't something I expected when I started this project. What I thought was a personal inquiry is fast becoming a community experience. This is pretty magical to me, and I'm grateful for this time with these people.

REDEMPTION

2009-10-25T23:11:00.001-07:00

(PHOTO: Notre Dame Cathedral, Paris)

I think it was G.I. Joe who said, "Knowing is half the battle." My epiphany, the connection between failure at the wall and failure in my relationships, that I earned Friday was an important self-discovery. Climbing does keep me anchored to my promises, and in the last month I've learned more about myself through climbing than I have through my usual existential navel-gazing. Rock, even simulated rock, can be a mirror.

As I promised myself, I returned this evening to face down the route that vexed me so on Friday. When I arrived at the Rec, there were other routes added to the comps, another 5.6 and a 5.7 in the corner, that beckoned. Knowing the exact name of my perceived or constructed failure, that fear list, empowered me to approach my work differently. Adam, a wiry writing bloke we've nicknamed Jamochamiah, offered to belay. We talked first about my discovery and the nature of the head game in climbing. I headed up the new 5.6, getting within a foot of the top before my hands and elbows began to shake uncontrollably.

I could have pushed it to the top, but I know that I have to guard my joints. I think it's better to err on the side of caution than to push too hard - I'm new and don't want an injury with a lengthy recovery time to impede Project Up. So I came on down, hands shaking, wrists pulsing, feeling the dull ache in the wrist I broke last year, and grinning like a village idiot.

While I rested my hands, I talked with Jamochamiah about bouldering routes. Before the month is over, I will set one and stamp it with the E.F.R. seal of approval. Thinking about this goal, I worked the bouldering area of the wall, contemplated how I would balance challenge with encouragement. I hope to set a route that tests while it affirms so that at the end, one call feel good about the workout, but also encouraged to keep going.

After a rest and a chat about a possible Dolly Parton Project Part II (I have issues, I know, with letting go), I returned to The Route that I couldn't get on Friday. Let me be clear: It wasn't the route that broke my spirit. I chose to be broken in that moment of challenge. In the aftermath, I learned a great deal about myself. So what seemed like a nemesis on Friday was on Sunday sort of like an old friend. This shift in thinking got me on the route and up. I found the burst I needed to launch. I found the hold exactly where it had always been.

And though I didn't finish the entire route today (it was five minutes before closing time, so out of courtesy I stopped), I know I will before the end of the week. Knowing is half the battle, and I am making my way.

Thinking about the issues of belonging, those insecurities I couldn't shake on Friday, I volunteered to help Galveston and Jamochamiah clean up the wall. I learned how to take down the ropes, anchor in the lines that would be used to raise those ropes tomorrow (and a whole other kind of knot!). I checked a rope and wound it, just as I was shown, around my knees before tying it up. Doing this simple work while making small talk with Jamochamiah about minor mishaps within interpersonal relationships, helped me to reclaim and affirm my sense of belonging to the climbing community.

The eyes see through the lens of the heart. Knowing and naming my real fears changed the lens from a fractured view to a more beautiful vision. As I left the gym and walked into a crisp October night, I was proud of myself. The climbing had gone well, but better still, I had come back to myself.

HEAD GAME

2009-10-23T23:02:00.001-07:00

I had been looking forward to climbing all day. With the recent UP triumph, I was feeling more relaxed at the wall. I felt as if I belonged there. It's not easy to show up every training day, ready to work, without hearing the nagging voice of failure. When I am intimidated by the routes, when I feel old and out of shape, my inner critic taunts me. Deep down, I'm embarrassed to have let myself "go" as they say, and as an older student, I've always felt uncomfortable on campus. I learned long ago that this discomfort was a coping strategy of dysfunctional sort, an obstacle I put in my own way to isolate me from hope. Beating the odds, going to college later in life, striking out on one's own, and daring to imagine a different path, isn't easy. And it seems that when I'm at the wall, all of my insecurities come with me.

When I reached the top of "C'est Facile," I felt as if I had finally staked a claim on myself. I had conquered my inner critic. What I've learned just a few days later, however, is that I won the battle, not the war.

I went to work today, learned I had been hired for a position I had applied for a few weeks ago, and found a thank you card in my mailbox from Ryann, my climbing partner. Later in the afternoon, I went to the No Name Reading Series and heard some great work by colleagues. It was a fantastic fall afternoon. The sun had finally come out from under the blanket of gray we've endured all week. All the trees were aflame with fall color. The air was crisp as I walked from downtown to our rec center. Climbing had been on my mind all week, and I was determined to give that Dolly Parton Project my best effort.

Unfortunately, when I arrived at the wall, I noticed how stark it had become. There was a climbing competition there yesterday, so all the familiar routes were gone, including my beloved DPP. Disappointed and startled to be beginning all over again, I donned my shoes and harness. I figured I'd just do the easiest route labeled "one" and call it a day.

My climbing daughter, Laura, had met me there. I watched her cover three routes in short order. Encouraged, I roped up and stood before the first route. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't get on the damn thing, let alone climb it. It began with the sort of dyno move I'm still trying to master. Though I could see exactly where my hand should go once my rocket legs propelled me upward, my arms failed me - over and over again. A climbing staffer I hadn't met before stood too close as I worked it. He hovered. I felt cold there in his figurative shadow.

When I looked at him, I told him I could do it.

"I just want to make sure you don't get hurt," he said, concerned the way young people are when old people try new things. He wasn't condescending, just sincere and dutiful. This made me feel worse, and I found myself feeling insecure all over again. My inner child wanted to yell, "I can do it myself!"

Well, my outer adult wanted to yell, too.

"She's all right, she's been here a lot," another staffer said. He smiled awkwardly then shuffled away. As I huffed and puffed, I could feel my daughter's frustration. "You can do this," she said.

And the thing is, deep down, I knew I could. But my head, that melon so full of ideas and books, wasn't in the game. All the voices of failure rang out in a choral note, and it seemed the harder I tried, the louder it grew. Failure has a crescendo. It didn't help, I suppose, that I was wearing one of the P'UP official t-shirts, the one that says, "I'm poetry in motion, bitches!" on the back. I didn't feel like a poem, but more of a footnote. Small print. The kind of thing you skip over.

"Erica, your t-shirt is hysterical today," Emily called out. "You can do it."

I spent fifteen minutes doing that intro move over and over again until my arms burned. I felt embarrassed, too. The only proof I've successfully ascended is on the blog. I wanted my kid to see my improvements. All she saw was my disappointment. The routes themselves lacked the cohesion that allows for Failed Route: Plan B (traversing). Even the ladder leading to the fingerboards was put away, so I couldn't do the sort of training I do when having a bad climbing day. I felt too embarrassed to ask for it, even though I knew someone would have gotten it out for me. It was just that kind of day, when I thought I came to climb, but learned I had really showed up just in time to wrestle my demons instead.

In short, I felt defeated.

"It's okay, Mom," my daughter said. "The energy is bad here today anyway."

I noticed that the old timers were loving the wall and the routes. They had returned to revisit the routes that beat them down during the competition. That, I understood. But as a newbie, I just couldn't find a place for me. New routes will show up next week, when they add to the stark wall as they always do after a competition. All the same, in the moments on the bench when other newbies who started last month said, "There isn't jack up here for people like us," I felt both a kinship and a sense of frustration.

"Well," I said, tossing my chalk bag, ring of life, and buddy basket into my bad, "clearly I'm not ready for a comp. No biggie."

I watched the others climb, noted their approach, and made a promise to get back to the wall on Sunday. I've got a mountain of work to scale at home, papers to grade, papers to write, lessons to plan ... but if I get to my goals by the end of the weekend, I'll return to the wall as I did those first weeks. I'm coming to terms with the fact that climbing is a head game. On a good day, it's the best. On a bad day, it's really bad.

Whenever one tries something new, it's tempting to give in, to walk away, the moment one confronts limitations. And I know climbing, as a sport, is about confronting limitations every climb. But knowing this doesn't make my head clear up, doesn't illuminate my route, or even bolster my muscles. It simply makes me begin again in the sort of humbled way first-born know-it-all children such as myself find really annoying. If that wall could talk, I'm pretty sure it would say, "Neener neener, ya'll don't need yo caribeener! Ya grounded, biatch!"

Yeah, the wall was talkin' shit today. And I took it. As I walked out of the rec and toward my car, I knew I hadn't brought my best to the wall, and that annoyed me all over again. It seems learning to be patient with my own process is part of climbing, too. If climbing didn't matter to me, if I weren't hooked, if I didn't believe I could learn something from this project, I wouldn't have been twisted up.

It's funny to me now. As I write, I'm remembering a concept I read in Dinty Moore's Accidental Buddhist. In order to achieve the mental growth necessary to meditate and achieve wisdom, one must give up all that seems to matter first. Meaning, you have to set aside your own desires because desire is rooted in the Self and not in the spirit. It's not "How bad do you want it?" but "What will you need to give up to grow?" - this is a Zen concept. Riding home at night, streets wet, the air chilled, I decided I didn't want the product - the completed climb - as badly as I wanted to learn to protect my self-respect. I had let voices from the past limit my present, and this was linked to my desire to be more. More of what, I don't rightly know. Just more.

And that's when I realized that there's still a part of me hanging on to fear. And it's not a fear of gravity, oh no. This fear comes in a simple list:

I'm afraid I don't matter.
I'm afraid I'm not loved.
I'm afraid I'll never be loved.

Seems simple enough to type that out, but it's not. When the chips are down and I'm facing obstacles - even those far removed from those deeply felt (however absurd they may seem) concerns - I'm haunted. Sometimes I think my body is a house, full of ghosts rattling the chains I use to hold myself down, to undermine and sabotage my efforts. I once thought that if I loved fully, if I loved others (platonically or not), love would be returned. Though I don't regret loving as fiercely and deeply as I do (and did), I have noticed that I forget to pour that love into myself, too. Instead, I assumed it would be someone else that did that pouring, someone else who could shore up my cracked veneer.

As Toni Morrison writes in Beloved, "Thin love ain't no love at all." Sitting at a my computer now, thinking, wondering, I've decided I have been giving myself nothing but thin love, and that was just one reason for this project.

Here, I've committed to a year of self-exploration through climbing, yet when I was handed the karmic opportunity to do just that, I resisted. I made it about the physical failure instead of the mental or spiritual growth. I forgot, even as I labored, that I was climbing, or attempting to climb, to fulfill a promise to myself.

Ah, I love writing as inquiry ... writing to learn. So here I am, finally able to write this: Climbing keeps you anchored to your promises. That is its beauty and its difficulty. Maybe I should put that on a t-shirt.

FALL FEASTING: PART IV

2009-10-23T22:45:00.000-07:00

Healthy eating doesn't mean you can't have the occasional treat. I'm finding that the treats themselves are better when packed with nutritionally rich additions, such as whole wheat flour and pumpkin, or sunflower seeds and oats. Moderation is key, of course. Both of these recipes freeze well, too.

Whole Wheat Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Muffins

Seriously, this is the best pumpkin muffin recipe I have in my epicurean arsenal...

1 and 2/3 cup whole wheat flour
1 cup sugar
2 and 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon ground cloves
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 large eggs, beaten
1 cup canned pumpkin or 1 cup fresh cooked (and cooled) mashed pumpkin
1/2 cup melted butter
1 cup chocolate chips

Melt butter in the microwave, set aside to cool. Line muffin pans with 12 foil baking cups. Combine four, sugar, spices, soda, baking powder, and salt in a large bowl. Stir well. In another bowl, mix butter and pumpkin together, then add the eggs. Mix well. Add chocolate chips to the pumpkin mixture, stir to combine. Pour wet ingredients into the flour mixture, stir just to blend. Don't over blend - the batter should be lumpy. If you over mix quick breads, the gluten in the flour will lengthen and create chewy muffins. You don't want that! Bake in a 350 degree oven for 20 minutes, or until the muffins, when pressed, spring back at the touch. These are great warm, but the spice flavor improves the second and third days (if they last that long).

SUNFLOWER SEED COOKIES

1 cup light brown sugar, packed
3/4 cup white sugar
1 cup butter, softened
2 teaspoons almond OR vanilla extract
2 eggs, beaten

2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
2 cups quick or old fashioned oats
1 cup sunflower seeds
1/2 cup shredded coconut
1 cup white chocolate chips (optional)

In a medium bowl, combine flour, soda, salt, and baking powder. Set aside. Cream together sugars and butter, add extract and eggs. Beat until fluffy. Add flour mixture and blend well. Use a spoon to fold in oats, seeds, and coconut (and those chips if you're using them). Drop dough from teaspoons onto baking sheets. Bake 12 minutes in a 350 degree oven.