Hand, Rock and Moss

{In celebration of National Poetry Month, I’ll be posting a poem each weekday through the rest of April, and I invite you to join me!  Leave a link to your poem of the day in the comments section below.}

Hand, rock and moss, you

Show me again: each part of

This world is alive

 

This Moment

{this moment} ~ A Friday ritual. A single photo – no words – capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. {a ritual from Soule Mama}rock climbing

Water and Rock: The Acadian Coast

Coastal Maine is more than salt and seaweed.  It is rock, too: rocky break-ways leading out to lighthouses, rocky beaches covered and exposed by changing tides, cliffs of rock raising high above the ocean.  What more can you ask for but this, water and rock–hydrogen, oxygen, minerals–the beginnings and base of life.  This is what pulls me to the coast, these smells and textures, this movement and stillness, this water and rock.

I grew up in Vermont, but still the ocean is part of me, or I am part of the ocean.  If you asked me at six years old what I wished to be more than anything else, I would have told you a mermaid, and my home would be the sea.  But it is more than that.  It’s the sense of wonder that comes from a thing so large, a thing that offers food and salt, that offers life and mystery, but that can so quickly and powerfully take life away.  It is being in the presence of an energy that moves freely and truly without emotion, and learning to feel that energy within myself.

Ocean and rock teach me the same thing: to be present.  It is a lesson that must be practiced, and so Edge and I went climbing yesterday at the Precipice wall in Acadia National Park.  It has been said that you should do one thing everyday that scares you, and to that I will say this: rock climbing does not inherently scare me, but it does bring my vulnerabilities and anxieties to the forefront of my mind.  Some days they hardly appear, and I climb confidently for hours.  Other days I must stop to breathe and remind myself I know how to do this, I can do this, I am good at this, I am safe, I am alive.  Those days I must remember how to move freely and truly without emotion.

When we began yesterday I was confident, but somewhere on the second pitch of a climb doubt crept in, and I stopped.  I could see Edge above me at the belay station, and though a fall held little risk, I yelled “take!” and felt the rope tighten with Edge’s support.  I held on then, and called out to him, “I need to stay here for a minute.”  Breathing, I focused in on the rock, on the crack before me and holds above me.  And then I turned my head out, and there was the ocean.  In and out I breathed, feeling the cliff and staring at the water, until thoughts of doubt receded and I looked up, smiling at Edge, ready to keep climbing.  The third pitch brought us to the top, and we stood there for a while, leaning against the wall as the ocean spread out to the horizon.

View from the top

This is what pulls me to the coast: this stillness of mind and movement of body, this reconnection with the base of life–hydrogen, oxygen, minerals–water and rock.  They teach me to be present every day.

Grapefruit Rocks and a Slice of Fatman

After two weeks of being in Fairbanks I finally left the city area and drove north to go rock climbing.  It was the first warm and sunny weekend, with the temperature up in the 50s, and just feeling the sun was enough to make me smile.  I had been wanting to explore beyond the city limits, so when I heard Edge was going climbing, I asked to go along.

The hour drive brought us to an area called Grapefruit Rocks and the Twin Towers, which are large tors rising up from the side of mountains.  Along the way Edge pointed out farms tucked behind trees and hidden from the view of the road, and we shared stories of our travels, his to Mexico and mine to New Zealand.  “I found that I like slow travel best, and I like getting to really know a place instead of checking things off a list so I can say I saw it,” I said, and he agreed.  Edge is going into his fourth year living in Ester, and he said, “There are some places I haven’t climbed, but I really like the area we’re going to today, and I discover something new each time I go there.”  The value of a place is rarely found in a quick glance, but it is learned through observation, awareness, and the willingness to listen and sink into the land without the rush of time.

When we arrived at the first crag, I warmed up on an easy 30-foot route and free-climbed to the top.  I didn’t start out with the intention to go all the way up, but as my hands found holds, my shoes stuck to the rock, and my body remembered the way to move, I kept going.  When I got to the top I said, “That wasn’t as scary as I thought it’d be!”  Edge shouted up, “That’s the perfect answer!”  It felt like springtime all morning, with snow on the ground but sun in the sky, and we climbed at the Grapefruit rocks until they were covered in shade, then drove down the road to another pull-off and hiked up to the Twin Towers.  The steep walk up to the tors warmed us up again, and it felt like summer as we rolled up our pants and took off upper-layers to climb in t-shirts.  Surprisingly, we ran into two other climbing pairs, which Edge told me is rare up here, and I thought of climbing at the Gunks in New Paltz, NY, and how the rocks are swarmed each weekend there.  Alaska is so big, though, and being the only one at a climbing area is common up here.

For most of the day Edge practiced lead climbing and I followed to clean up the gear.  As we looked through guide book (which is only about 40 pages long) to decide which climb to do next, I noticed the ratings and said I’d try a 5.6 to 5.8, but I wasn’t sure how I’d do on a 5.9.  “We’ve been climbing 5.9s all day!” Edge said, and he assured me I could do some more.  I was surprised but said, “I guess when I just go for it and don’t think about the rating, than I don’t stop myself from doing it.  I think I like not knowing what the climb is rated!”

The clouds set in and the wind picked up for our last few climbs, and it felt like the season had shifted to fall.  When I checked the time as we cleaned up the gear from our last climb, I expected it to be around 5:30 based on the amount of light, but my watch read 8:30 pm.  That’s one of the things I love about climbing—time falls away and I am totally in the moment, body and mind in harmony with the rock.  As the days get longer, though, the amount of light makes me forget time all together, and I wonder how much sleep I’ll get this summer.

We stopped at a truck stop/restaurant on the way back and ordered slices of pie called the fatman: a pecan butter crust with a layer of cream cheese, then a chocolate cream filling, then an inch of whipped cream sprinkled with chocolate chips and drizzled chocolate sauce.  It was enormous.  It was delicious!  When I finally arrived back home around 10:30, dusk had really settled in, and I fell asleep tired and happy.