Day two of my online guitar lessons: I can't feel my left hand and the corresponding wrist throbs. I should probably heed the advice of my lessons and cut back the playing to 15 minutes everyday, lest I injure my wrists or fingers so soon after starting. A person's hand is probably not suppose to feel like the size and elegance of an inflated balloon, after all. Lies. I'll just keep on keeping on and hope my hands adjust to their newest task.Today I learned minor cords, a really weird sounding scale, and how to strum. My playing still sounds atrocious, but I like to think it is less assaulting than the sounds I produced this time last night. Also, I'm sure my neighbors living the next floor down are less than thrilled that I practice guitar at 11:30 at night. However, I like to think it is me getting back at them for smoking outside my window and talking until 2:00am on a random Wednesday morning. Yeah for civil Seattle neighbors and passive aggressive methods of dealing with problems.I also learned the necessary cords for 90% of the old hymns written: G, C, F, Am. I plunked my way through Come Thou Fount. Hopefully come August end, I can watch the sun set and play some hymns to the approaching night. I am currently accepting auditions for random percussion, be it the spoons, tambourine, or little plastic eggs filled with jelly beans.
A guitar has most recently found itself in my possession. To celebrate this companionship with my new instrument friend, I sat down, Google searched "Beginning Guitar," and found this site. I can play a really pathetic version of Leaving on a Jet Plane and The Gambler, identify basic guitar anatomy, and hold a pick in the correct position. The cords I slowly produce sound terrible and my hands feel foreign and clumsy. After 20 minutes of playing, the 1st through 3rd fingers on my fretting hand ache and discuss going on strike. I finally feel like I am doing something with my summer. I can't wait to learn enough to plunk out old hymns at the beach near sunset.
I made an important decision today. With so many hours of free time to examine my life and personality, my goals and dreams, I realized I have a lot of cobwebs hiding in very big closets. Sadly, so many of my free hours have been spent either on internet networks or thinking about said internet networks. Not on developing my photography. Not on learning to play the guitar or ukulele. No even on memorizing new prayers or something as basic as the Nicene Creed. No, my time has been spent obsessing over Gmail and Facebook. Today I decided to clear away my first cobweb, the beginnings of internet addiction, and deleted my networking accounts.
I don't want my life to be lived through a computer screen, longing after friends that are years in the past and miles and miles away. I want to live in Seattle and connect with friends face to face. I don't want to be bombarded by pop culture and internet advertising against my will. I want to be filled with art, literature and music. I want my life to be real and present.
I woke up and looked at myself today. Within the bed sheets and blankets, I noticed a grey and scaly mess clinging to my body. It was itchy but there was also comfort in knowing it was there. It was predictable. It was familiar. It was by no means attractive, but in some ways I almost liked it. But did it itch! Should I keep it or let it go?
With hesitation at first, but later a driving and burning determination, I pulled back the old skin and hoped that something better lie underneath. Something beautiful and in the process of becoming. Something that might be scary in its infancy but grow into the vibrant and brightly colored person I was meant to be.
God willing, today I will buy a used guitar.
From CS Lewis' novel, The Great Divorce:
I saw coming toward us a Ghost who carried something on his shoulder. Like all Ghosts, he was unsubstantial, but they differed from on another as smokes differ. Some had been whitish; this one was dark and oily. What sat on his shoulder was a little red lizard, and it was twitching its tail like a whip and whispering things in his ear. As we caught sight of him he turned his head to the reptile with a snarl of impatience. 'Shut up, I tell you!' he said. It wagged its tail and continued to whisper to him. He ceased snarling, and presently began to smile. Then he turned and started to limp westward, away from the mountains.
'Off so soon?' said a voice.
The speaker was more or less human in shape but larger than a man, and so bright that I could hardly look at him. His presence smote on my eyes and on my body too (for there was heat coming from him as well as light) like the morning sun at the beginning of a tyrannous summer day.
'Yes. I'm off,' said the Ghost. 'Thanks for all your hospitality. But it's no good, you see. I told this little chap,' (here he indicated the lizard) 'that he'd have to be quiet if he came- which he insisted on doing. Of course his stuff won't do here: I realise that. But he won't stop. I shall just have to go home.'
'Would you like him to be quiet?' said the flaming Spirit- an angel, as I now understood.
'Of course I would,' said the Ghost.
'Then I will kill him,' said the Angel, taking a step forward.
'Oh- ah- look out! You're burning me. Keep away,' said the Ghost, retreating.
'Don't you want him killed?'
'You didn't say anything about killing him at first. I hardly meant to bother you with anything so drastic as that.'
'Its the only way,' said the Angel, whose burning hands were now very close to the Lizard. 'Shall I kill it?'
'Well, that's a further question. I'm quite open to consider it, but it's a new point, isn't it? I mean, for the moment I was only thinking about silencing it because up here- well, it's so damned embarrassing.'
'May I kill it?' [...]
'Why are you torturing me? You are jeering at me. How can I let you tear me to pieces? If you wanted to help me, why didn't you kill the damned thing without asking me- before I knew? It would be all over by now if you had.'
'I cannot kill it against your will. It is impossible. Have I your permission?'
'I know it will kill me.'
'It won't. But supposing it did?'
'You're right. It would be better to be dead than to live with this creature.'
'Then may I?'
'Damn and blast you! Go on, can't you? Get it over. Do what you like,' bellowed the Ghost; but ended, whimpering, 'God help me. God help me.'
Next moment the Ghost gave a scream of agony such as I never heard on Earth. The Burning One closed his crimson grip on the reptile: twisted it, while it bit and writhed, and then flung it, broken-backed, on the turf.
'Ow! That's done for me,' gasped the Ghost, reeling backwards.
For a moment I could make out nothing distinctly. Then I saw, between me and the nearest bush, unmistakably solid but growing every moment solider, the upper arm and the shoulder of a man. Then, brighter still and stronger, the legs and hands. The neck and golden head materialised while I watched, and if my attention had not wavered I should have seen the actual completing of a man- an immense man, naked, not much smaller than the Angel. What distracted me was the fact that at the same moment something seemed to be happening to the Lizard. As first I thought the operation had failed. So far from dying, the creature was still struggling and even growing bigger as it struggled. And as it grew it changed. Its hinder parts grew rounder. The tail, still flickering, became a tail of hair that flickered between huge and glossy buttocks. Suddenly I started back, rubbing my eyes. What stood before me was the greated stallion I have ever seen, silvery white but with a mane and tail of gold. It was smooth and shining, rippled with swells of flesh and muscle, whinneying and stamping with its hoofs. At each stamp the land shook and the trees dwindled.
To dare to live alone is the rarest courage; since there are many who had rather meet their bitterest enemy in the field, than their own hearts in their closet. --Charles Caleb Colton
Pray that your loneliness may spur you into finding something to live for, great enough to die for. --Dag Hammarskjold
I was left with an interesting choice last night: Is it more lame to spend Saturday night completely alone or studying for Microbiology? After checking my email five times in two hours and reading every blog I care to follow... twice, I decided the lesser evil was a homework session at a late night cafe. Hopefully, that would take my mind off the suffocating weight of loneliness I felt pressing down on my chest and ringing in my ears.
Of course, it was already 9:00pm and late night study sessions become more difficult when a person is trying their hardest to be bike-only. While I would normally choose my destination based off the atmosphere of the cafe, my preference has changed to close proximity and on this particular occasion, the hours. A bit of research, a quick look at Google maps, and 20 minutes later, I find myself locking my bike to a rack at Zoka's in Green Lake. Saturday night might still be salvageable, I thought as I peered past glass at vegan chocolate chip cookies.
I ordered a iced green tea and a vegan cookie and found a table in the corner surrounded by windows. While the wind had picked up and clouds scattered the twilit sky, the air still carried the warmth and mugginess of a full Seattle summer day. Wait, Seattle summer days terminate in clear crispness rather than warm mugginess. Tonight felt charged, like a Midwestern night of lightning and humidity. Strange things were in the air and looming outside like bats or owls. Branches pushed each other back and forth in the wind. The trees swayed and waved, begging me to take notice of their frantic caution. A Gothic night peered at me through the black panes of the window and I felt fragile, pale, beautiful and on the verge of something grotesque. I opened my messenger bag, pulled out my book, and flipped to page 41. "'- tear up the planks! - here, here! - it is the beating of his hideous heart!'" No, wait, that wasn't quite right. I wouldn't be sitting around a campfire reading the complete works of Edgar Allan Poe. "Microscopy and Cell Structure." Unfortunately, that was more like it. I tried to convince my embittered imagination that microbes can carry their weight in Gothic elements (if only on a microscopic level), but it just sat in the corner, shunned and pouting.
I finished my tea, cookie, and very little of the reading I hoped to get done before closing down the cafe. In defense of my lack of study progress, Zoka's closed an hour earlier than I was expecting and had the best taste in music I have found since leaving Portland. I sat pondering the mechanisms of Gram stains to Beruit, Yann Tiersen, Death Cab for Cutie and the Decemberists. How could I help but be lost in memories when the kitchen staff so deliberately stole playlists from my iPod? Two thumbs up for Zoka's atmosphere and music choice, an unexpected surprise given my hours/proximity criteria. I unlocked my bike and began mentally preparing myself for my uphill ride at 11:30 at night.
I started my ride home, only to realize that I was flying for the second time that Saturday. The first time I flew was at Magnuson Park on Lake Washington. The sun was scorching the earth below and convinced me it was the perfect time for a swim. I paddled out past the shore and filled my lungs with air while I floated on my back. The shore moved to the side and my vision filled with sky. With my head dipped back and my ears covered with water, the cheerful play of the children on the beach and the chopping splash of the waves on the shore muffled to a near silence. They sounded so far away. I concentrated on the birds flying and the clouds scattered across blue. The waves swelled me close to the sky before pulling my limp body back to the earth. I accepted the bobbing motion and let myself soar with the dipping and climbing of the birds' flight above me. Oh, to fly on the waves on an unsuspecting Saturday, in silence and warmth with the birds at play. I felt a pang of loneliness at the experience of solitary near-bliss. I was flying alone, with the birds. Lord Jesus Christ, son of God. I breathed in. Have mercy on me, a sinner. I breathed out. I swelled toward the sky. Lord Jesus Christ, son of God. I breathed in. I fell toward the earth, pleading, have mercy on me, a sinner. I breathed out.
Riding a bike through city suburbs at night is also very close to flying. The streets are deserted of cars and pedestrians. The white lines blur orange in 10-ft sections of street light illumination. I turn a corner and plunge down a hill in darkness, the warm night air filling me up and raising my arms toward the sky. The stars are so close. I can touch them. They tickle my fingertips with their twinkling. My sweatshirt hood flaps with speed. My bicycle tail light quickly blinks red. Dimly lit bars exude the muffled sounds of billiards. Thud clink clink. Badly chosen pick-up lines are delivered on the rims of pink and blue neon martini glasses. Poetry, poetry! The air is alive and I fly on the back on the night, let loose and tickled by the stars. Tonight carries a charge, the hairs on my arm stand up straight.
A quick flash pulls my attention over Green Lake shortly before I hear the rumble and crash of thunder. A near perfect Saturday made nearly better by an unsuspecting lightning storm! I turn a detour into Green Lake park and start riding along the trail in darkness and silence. One couple sits cloistered on a park bench, lost in each others' arms. A group of friends laugh and joke when I zip past, surprised and relieved I hadn't hit their party. Another couple with a dog walks hand in hand in lease. Flash Crack Rumble. The small dog jumps and urinates before looking distrustingly at a sky suddenly turned evil. Despite the late hour, the warmth and the beauty of the night lure me to a bench by the lake that looks across at the storm.
I sit on a bench by the lake in the dark, watching the raw energy completely overpower the electric lights below. I breath in the ozone and feel my arm hairs prickle, caressed by the delicate night rather than the gentle strokes of a loved one's fingertips. Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, I feel well up from my heart, have mercy on me, a sinner. The prayer completes itself and continues on with every breath I take in and push out. The rhythm is only slightly disturbed and distracted by a sudden intake of breath at a particularly marvelous lightning bolt streaking across the sky. Rather than pinned under a rock of heavy loneliness, my soul is suspended on waves, bobbing up and down. My chest feels light and dizzy like a ride on a bicycle in the night. My ears ring with cracks of thunder and gushes of wind rather than a silent apartment on a Saturday night. Lord Jesus Christ, son of God. Lord Jesus Christ, son of God. I might be able to do this single thing, after all.
Have mercy on me, a sinner and forgive me of my doubt.
No my friend, darkness is not everywhere, for here and there I find faces illuminated from within; paper lanterns among the dark trees. --Carole Borges
My climbing friend recently posted a contest on her blog, asking her readers to describe their most romantic rock climbing or outdoor experience. You can find her original blog here: RockClimberGirl
I wrote the following in response to her inquiry:
I love outdoor sports and activities of every kind. I’m heterosexual. I’m single. With a profile such as this and an outdoor guy/girl ratio of 4:1, it would be safe to assume there would be some moments of romancing in my outdoor career. Like the time my Fabio-esque mountaineering partner snuck away wine and cheese to be presented on summit. Or the under-the-stars, by-the-creek, away-from-civilization back massage. Or perhaps the time I sprained my ankle and was carried out of the wilderness by a bulging-muscle, bare-chested prince charming while my wispy, almost see through, lingerie hiking dress struggled to stay on my oiled body. I could write a book on the ways I would like to be romanced on the trail, either advising climbing guys on how to make their female climbing friends long term partners, or at least creating the newest and most tantalizing penny novel for Walmart shelves around America. Unfortunately, the attempts at romancing I have experienced have been awkward at best, if not more than a little creepy.
My creepiest experience took place about a year ago. I took a road trip to the deserts of Utah with a friends-only hiking partner. First lesson learned, if you are not into a guy, don’t take a 10 day road/backpacking trip with him. The trip was awkward from the time we left Washington. I picked up on the attention and tried my hardest to send unspoken messages that I was not interested. Unfortunately, one’s energy gets a little worn down after 10 hours in the car. Under the cold and frosted car windows somewhere near Twin Falls, Idaho, I awoke to gentle strokes of my friends-only partner brushing my hair from my face. I pretended to be asleep and quietly thanked Honda for the stick shift separation between the seats. We were to meet up with a group of my climbing friends at Indian Creek, UT followed by some backpacking in Canyonlands National Park. I couldn’t wait for a break from my partner and the safety of a group.
As chance would have it, we missed the rendezvous and ended up starting our backpacking trip early, at the suggestion of my partner, strangely enough just the two of us. We got into camp, made food, and I lay down as quickly as possible, not wanting to share the amazing desert night sky with someone that I was desperately trying to avoid. The second morning I woke up to more stroking of the hair and still pretended to be asleep. This had to stop. We set out on a day hike and I finally got enough nerve to explain that I was not interested in him as anything more than a climbing partner and would he please stop paying me so much physical affection. He understood, but also explained he was a very physical person and showed even his best of friends as much affection as he could get away with. Creepy, leave me alone. I yelled in my head, but knew I still had 8 days with this person. “Let’s keep it to a minimum. I don’t like to be touched.” Second lesson learned from this trip, always carry a one person tent. Inspired by this trip, I bought my little Black Diamond Oneshot as soon as I got home. The touching stopped, minus a few stiff hugs and inappropriate sexual comments. Needless to say, the end of the trip was the end of our hiking partnership.
Now that the immediate memories of my creepy experiences have past, I do remember the attempts at romancing made by partners of mutual interest. A couple summers ago I went on a 3 day backpacking trip with my boyfriend at the time. By the evening of day two, we had hiked 24 miles and were feeling pretty beat up. While I prepared the tent for our much needed night of rest, he started a fire by the river. I came looking for him and dinner, only to find a little bench in front of the fire with Cheesy Mac and a steamy cup of hot chocolate waiting for me. We sat on the river wood bench and watched the surrounding mountains turn pink with the sunset as we shared memories from the day and compared sore muscles.
Another experience came shortly after Valentine’s Day when I was dating a route setter at the local gym. Valentine’s Day had come and gone and I didn’t even get a flower from my climbing partner. Wow, climber guys are terrible at this romancing stuff, I thought while on the verge of breaking up with my negligent partner. We were meeting up at the gym after he finished a couple hours of route setting. Our work-out would start with me climbing some of his new routes so I could give him a second opinion on his route grades. I did three before he led me to a new red 10a in the corner. I climbed it and sat back ready to be lower, my arms burning from their warm-up and feeling a little light headed. I wasn’t being lowered. “Try and find the Easter egg,” he shouted from the bottom. I thought he was messing with me. Several people watching on directed me to look behind me. There, taped to the pillar at the top of the climb, was a shiny new Gri-Gri with my nick name affectionately scribed on top of the box. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” I heard from my belayer as he lowered me. “I wanted to do this earlier but Petzel didn’t send the order in time.” In his odd and indirect way, the route was later named, “I Got 99 Problems.”
Growing up with only brothers and their friends, I’m familiar with the age old decision climbing guys face when considering dating. Should they date a climbing girl or work to create their own? I’ve seen my brothers and hiking partners go both ways with scattered success. As I think about the apparent lack of response to this contest as well as reflect on my own experiences, I think one of three things: 1) Climbing guys do not make the effort and therefore there are no great stories out there to be told. 2) Girls that have found their match and enjoy the happiness of romance and outdoors are too afraid to write about the experiences for fear of cursing a very good thing. 3) The problem isn’t them after all, but us, the climbing girl.
I know it is a tough world for girls who are wild at heart. We spend our lives convincing ourselves and the people around us that we are “just one of the boys.” To prove our worth as climbing partners, we shoot down weakness in ourselves and others, enduring all sorts of pain for longer periods of time than a sane person would allow. We live whole weekends dirty and bloody, only to collapse on our beds Sunday night and dream of the next trip. As a result, we have strong backs and souls that could hold up the world longer than the Atlas of Greek mythology. But in this struggle, have we sacrificed our ability to be romanced? Do we notice and remember the small gestures of our partners, or forget them in our rush for bigger and better? Do we accept the flowers or scoff at the vulnerability and apparent weakness therein? I know I am guilty of this and wouldn’t be surprised if this was a sentiment shared by many.
Perhaps next time I am out and about with a prospective or current partner, I should remember several things: 1) A bottle of wine is very heavy. Perhaps a beer in the local tavern is a more sensible expectation. Besides, who wants to mess with a descent severely buzzed? 2) Romantic massages can go both ways and scented oils smell better on clean skin. 3) Having a guy run several miles for help over my sprained ankle is just as good as (better than) being carried out by Fabio with our malfunctioning clothing. 4) The romance might be hidden in the small, routine movements rather than the larger gestures.
One friend wrote to me in response to our discussing this topic and I find some truth in his jest. “As his hand gingerly touched my 'Black Diamond Momentum Climbing Harness 2008' he checked my figure eight knot, stared into my eyes approvingly and said, “On belay.” Is the small romance, the hot chocolate, the route labeling, or the tender belay check enough? In the end, it depends on at least one of the climbing partners, either myself or the other.
