My original plan was to see the email arrive on my Blackberry, and immediately get to work on a post detailing my reactions to the news from Berkeley's graduate school. I wanted to keep the email unopened, write an introduction, and then essentially press "pause" while I read the news. I'd then finish the post accordingly. My reaction was going to be vivid, immediate, unscripted.
But then, I was at work when I got the email from the ERG graduate group, the office who's decision to admit or deny me into their program would largely determine the next few years of my life. Williams doesn't allow me to access my blog from the office, so I was kind of stuck. I really wanted to find out their decision and post the blog according to my formula, but waiting until I got home from work to post seemed like an eternity. After about 5 minutes of agony, I said "The hell with it," and opened the news.
____________
Growing up, soccer was everything to me. The games, the practices, and the teammates largely defined my physical reality, as well as my social scene. I played club soccer until high school, then moving into an even more rabid mode consisting of Wheat Ridge High School games during the fall, and then played on a club team for the remaining eight months. I would practice five days a week with the same 15 or so guys. I'd known all of them since we were toe-headed rug-rats terrorizing teams from the neighboring suburbs like some sort of white, privileged gang warfare.
Once we got about halfway through high school, our club team fell apart. That same tight knit group that had played together for years would all be funneled into another club, and we were thrown in with about 30 other unfamiliar guys in a massive tryout. The powers that be would form three new teams without a guarantee that the old friends from Wheat Ridge would stick together.
I remember the tryout as a nerve wracking experience. I'd soon be scythed away from some of my best friends. Things went predictably awry, and I ended up on the second of the three teams. Solace came in the fact that a couple of my close friends were also on that team, but I watched as about five familiar faces were given first team jerseys. I hated to see them dissipate onto another team almost as much as I suffocated under my wounded pride. Bitter poison, knowing you're second tier.
The night we were assigned to our teams, many of us ended up meeting over at a friend's house. I wasn't sure if I really wanted to go, but I figured it would look pretty bad if I got cut and then didn't show up. I opted to take my medicine and go congratulate the one's who'd made the "A" team. When I got to the party, I walked towards the group of assembled players but couldn't say a word. I could only put my head down and cry. Keep in mind, I was 16 years old. I think I've always been a total pussy.
I played one season with the "B" team, and eventually found that the lowered pressure and reduced expectations were probably a good thing. Our coach was an erudite ex-pro who, instead of X's and O's, had us watch Glengarry Glen Ross as a means of explaining what it meant to close the deal and win a game. We flew to a tournament in California, but this location was selected primarily so that the team could enjoy the beaches, and not necessarily picked for the quality of the competition. When we played the "A" team during the season, they beat us 5-3. It didn't seem to matter that much. I think the mood following our defeat sprung from the fact that the game fell the day after a funeral held for a classmate. Soccer, for me, was beginning to matter less and less.
After that club season, I realized that a schedule of 200 or more days a year of games, practices, and singular focus were overrated. I decided to pull the plug on my club career, opting to play on our school's team during the fall, but trading my shin guards for a helmet during the spring's lacrosse season. My Junior and Senior years of high school allowed me to ebb and flow with the seasons. In large part, I was able to avoid a total burnout from uninterruptedly kicking a ball. I found that I loved lacrosse, too, and this break let me refresh my desire to play other sports. My passion for soccer would be reignited at the end of each summer, and though my skills were somewhat blunted, they'd come back waving a flag of realization that I wasn't ever going to play for Real Madrid or Chelsea, anyway.
_______________________
Trading soccer for lacrosse led to an interesting fallout. I ended up looking at colleges before my senior year of high school, and relished the idea of playing club lacrosse at a university. This probably played a part in my decision to go to St. Louis, and that certainly led me to Spain. Spending time in Europe sparked my love of climbing, and also introduced me to my two best friends. I can't complain about how it worked out.
As I digest the news that I didn't get accepted into Berkeley, I'm trying to remember the lessons I learned a dozen years ago. I'm not going in the direction I thought I would, but there is a greater good that will come out of this. To start, I am somewhat relieved that I don't have to move away from Boulder. I've come to adore my friends here, and find such comfort within this incredible climbing community.
Within just a few minutes of posting the news on Facebook, two good friends have offered the autumn alternatives of Burning Man and a climbing trip to The Valley. And you know what? I think I'm taking them up on them both. If I'm not going to school, I'm still going to live big.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Dispatch from the Field
I love how many comments that first TD/HBI generated. Thanks, Voyeurs!
Over these last two days, I've been out on the Western Slope. Work had been piling up while I was skiing in Jackson, and I had to run out for meetings with the Federales and Exxon in Meeker and BFE. Fortunately, neither Robert nor Cody were interested in awkward pseudo-dates a la my previous work junket, and I've largely put any such interaction out of my mind through thousands of dollars in therapy.
While I've been driving around the natural gas fields north of Rifle, I've had two distinct ideas bouncing around in my head like superballs.
First, I sure wish it was climbing season. Driving around just a few miles from The Canyon without my climbing gear in the car is torture. Ok, Ok, honesty alert: It's in there. Rope, shoes, harness, quickdraws. I just can't use any of them. There's snow on the ground, a chill in the air, and little call for climbing outside the temperature controlled confines of Movement Climbing and Fitness. Maybe that's what's so painful.
I have had a few days of climbing outside this winter, sure, but the weather this winter hasn't been nearly what I'd been hoping for. It seems like every January and February bring a week or two of mid 50's, and a promise of an early spring. This year, there's been no such luck. A couple of those days of outdoor climbing have come in the form of Hueco bouldering, and if you've got to drive nearly to Mexico, I'm not sure it counts.
When I'm not worrying about when the air will warm, allowing me to trade skis for that harness in my trunk, I've been thinking about school. Berkeley is supposed to let me know my enrollment status (in or out) at some point in February or early March. I'm not necessarily the most patient person, and now that we're more than halfway through that first month, I'm ready for news.
The two alternatives keep cropping up in my mind, and it's hard for me not to get anxious thinking about what my life is going to be like based upon a decision made by strangers that's entirely out of my hands. I'll bounce between a belief that I'll be accepted, be told of a deadline by which I'll have to be in CA, and find the freedom for my hedonistic, recreational tendencies to run rampant until classes start. Further, my buddy Nuno is going to be living in the Bay Area come autumn, and if all things align, we might end up spending time in the same house as a depraved pair of roommates. I guarantee it will be a house of horror and sin, and one (or both) of us will be arrested or killed (or both.)
Quickly after those visualizations of climbing trips, pal pow-wow's, and educational/intellectual demand fade, I sink back into the understanding that only about 5 percent of applicants get into the program. The strength of my application and experiences may matter not at all in the face of fierce competition from an accomplished pool of perspectives aiming for admission into one of the best grad schools in the country. I have nothing else to do but pull back from my pending move and admit that I might very well be spending the summer doing exactly what I've been doing this past year: traveling, climbing, and having a blast with great friends.
Wait, that's not so bad, either. And come to think of it, summer will likely play out identically, regardless of Cal's call.
I can't even say which reality I'd prefer. Both of these outcomes are sure fire ways to continue to push my life in a direction that I can be proud of. Either path will be rewarding. But what I really want right now is a clear picture of what my fate's going to be over this next year or two.
Soon enough, I suppose.
Over these last two days, I've been out on the Western Slope. Work had been piling up while I was skiing in Jackson, and I had to run out for meetings with the Federales and Exxon in Meeker and BFE. Fortunately, neither Robert nor Cody were interested in awkward pseudo-dates a la my previous work junket, and I've largely put any such interaction out of my mind through thousands of dollars in therapy.
While I've been driving around the natural gas fields north of Rifle, I've had two distinct ideas bouncing around in my head like superballs.
First, I sure wish it was climbing season. Driving around just a few miles from The Canyon without my climbing gear in the car is torture. Ok, Ok, honesty alert: It's in there. Rope, shoes, harness, quickdraws. I just can't use any of them. There's snow on the ground, a chill in the air, and little call for climbing outside the temperature controlled confines of Movement Climbing and Fitness. Maybe that's what's so painful.
I have had a few days of climbing outside this winter, sure, but the weather this winter hasn't been nearly what I'd been hoping for. It seems like every January and February bring a week or two of mid 50's, and a promise of an early spring. This year, there's been no such luck. A couple of those days of outdoor climbing have come in the form of Hueco bouldering, and if you've got to drive nearly to Mexico, I'm not sure it counts.
When I'm not worrying about when the air will warm, allowing me to trade skis for that harness in my trunk, I've been thinking about school. Berkeley is supposed to let me know my enrollment status (in or out) at some point in February or early March. I'm not necessarily the most patient person, and now that we're more than halfway through that first month, I'm ready for news.
The two alternatives keep cropping up in my mind, and it's hard for me not to get anxious thinking about what my life is going to be like based upon a decision made by strangers that's entirely out of my hands. I'll bounce between a belief that I'll be accepted, be told of a deadline by which I'll have to be in CA, and find the freedom for my hedonistic, recreational tendencies to run rampant until classes start. Further, my buddy Nuno is going to be living in the Bay Area come autumn, and if all things align, we might end up spending time in the same house as a depraved pair of roommates. I guarantee it will be a house of horror and sin, and one (or both) of us will be arrested or killed (or both.)
Quickly after those visualizations of climbing trips, pal pow-wow's, and educational/intellectual demand fade, I sink back into the understanding that only about 5 percent of applicants get into the program. The strength of my application and experiences may matter not at all in the face of fierce competition from an accomplished pool of perspectives aiming for admission into one of the best grad schools in the country. I have nothing else to do but pull back from my pending move and admit that I might very well be spending the summer doing exactly what I've been doing this past year: traveling, climbing, and having a blast with great friends.
Wait, that's not so bad, either. And come to think of it, summer will likely play out identically, regardless of Cal's call.
I can't even say which reality I'd prefer. Both of these outcomes are sure fire ways to continue to push my life in a direction that I can be proud of. Either path will be rewarding. But what I really want right now is a clear picture of what my fate's going to be over this next year or two.
Soon enough, I suppose.
Monday, February 15, 2010
The Maiden Voyage
Boys and Girls! Voyeurs and Voyettes! Welcome back from your adventures along the gray cliffs, the golden shores, and the toils of the fields. You've stumbled back to Abaluba, and with it, the first installment of TD/HBI. I implore you to make a strong decision in your life, put down your work, and read the following rambles. These ideas might not always be connected, but I hope to heaven that you'll find them entertaining.
What kind of person are you? The question is too damn vague, and if I don't shepherd you towards my intended response, you'll wander the woods like a herd of cats, pouncing on mice and looking cuddly, but wriggling with ringworm and quick to bite. I need you to winnow down your essence, and decide between being Spontaneous and Formulaic. Neither answer is good or bad, in my mind. And truthfully, I'd love to hear your comments.
The question stems from a conversation my roommate and I just had concerning relationships. We were talking about friends of ours that had gotten engaged after a short period of time with boy/girlfriends, and, separately, the relative commonplace that we find among the ages of women who almost always determine they want children.
I asked Brian if he could empathize with his cousin's decision to marry her boyfriend of only six months. He could not. His response had nothing to do with his opinion of either his cousin or her boyfriend, of both he spoke highly. In fact, Brian was more concerned that the pair hadn't had sufficient time to "learn" the intricacies of the other's behavior and personality.
We reasoned that in general, there could only be two responses to such a decision. Either "you know when you know," trusting in the intuition of the body when presented with a person/relationship, or you believe that in fact that there's a certain number of interactions you need with someone before you largely are able to predict their response to a certain stimuli. Once you can predict their responses, you can then determine if this outcome, presented a certain percentage of the time, is something you can deal with in a partnership.
Brian said he felt that the latter was his perception. I find it really interesting that this is how he approaches rock climbs, specifically projecting routes of a certain grade. Brian will approach each climb with a very strategic plan for eventually redpointing the route. His training regimen leading up to his eventual success on the route will have a designed proportion of endurance, power/bouldering, anabolic and anaerobic components. He'll have done a certain number of routes at varying levels of difficulty proceeding his desired project. He perceives and runs his life largely the same way he spends his energy towards his greatest passion - climbing.
When he asked me how I saw things, I told him I'd like to think you know when you know, but in fact I was probably more mechanical. Largely, I believe you can control a situation and engineer certain desired outcomes based upon behavior. I find it very interesting, however, that my biggest conflicts during serious relationships have been times when I go straight from emotion to action, effectively neutering my ability to analyze and prepare myself, planning my actions. I'm no longer behaving in a way designed, so to speak, to bring me the most "good."
And the second behavioral concept we were talking about might be entirely driven by hormones. Take that with a grain of salt and the reality that it could very well be an uneducated and misinformed judgment by the author when he speaks of a group he doesn't usually understand: women.
My friend Jesse (boy) has heard of a a theory, and is fond of passing it along, that when women turn 31.5, they have a chemical change that says they want a kid. First of all, 31.5 is a great number, as it sounds so precise and scientific. It's probably just an ingenious detail that provides a great hook, or at least some sort of rounding for average.
If a woman is 31.5, her biological odds of having a healthy baby are widely understood to begin to decrease dramatically. It seems plausible to believe that through evolution, humans have come to largely exhibit similar behavior. So normal a group can't be spontaneous in the face of estrogen, testosterone, progesterone, and human chorionic gonadotropin. Can they?
This isn't to say that ALL 31.5 year old women will all feel the exact same way about kids. Lots of them may, though, and that might be enough to wonder if, in general, similar demographics are going to turn out a certain way most of the time.
Speaking of Jesse...he is a third grade teacher, and will ask his kiddos a "question of the day." He'll write the question on the board and provide a list of possible answers, and the kids move a name tag into the answer with which they most agree. Some of his recent questions:
Q: What Would Make Colorado a Better Place (Pick one)
A1: Monkeys
A2: The Beach
A3: Disneyland
A4: Volcanoes
A5: Dinosaurs
(Q: The sad winner? A3)
I wonder if he'll ask the kids if A1: humans are willing to throw caution to the wind, marry a sweetheart and knock her up when she's 24 (regardless of whether she's biologically facing a deadline,) or A2: are we nothing more than robots programmed with an identifiable quota of chemicals and experience that make us all largely predicable. Me? I'll always vote for the stegosaurus. A5.
Whatcha reckon?
In a perhaps related twist of my neurons, I've been wondering if I'll find a woman with whom I'll finally fall totally in love. Will she come to pass me in a supermarket, smile a dashing hello and turn out to intertwine so perfectly with my heart that I'll find it impossible to walk away? Or will I merely wake up one day and decide that another year of solitary bachelorhood is something I couldn't abide, finally feeling the comfort in certainty when I decide, once and for all, that an 84/100 is a very winnable hand, and I might as well throw in my chips to make sure.
What kind of person are you? The question is too damn vague, and if I don't shepherd you towards my intended response, you'll wander the woods like a herd of cats, pouncing on mice and looking cuddly, but wriggling with ringworm and quick to bite. I need you to winnow down your essence, and decide between being Spontaneous and Formulaic. Neither answer is good or bad, in my mind. And truthfully, I'd love to hear your comments.
The question stems from a conversation my roommate and I just had concerning relationships. We were talking about friends of ours that had gotten engaged after a short period of time with boy/girlfriends, and, separately, the relative commonplace that we find among the ages of women who almost always determine they want children.
I asked Brian if he could empathize with his cousin's decision to marry her boyfriend of only six months. He could not. His response had nothing to do with his opinion of either his cousin or her boyfriend, of both he spoke highly. In fact, Brian was more concerned that the pair hadn't had sufficient time to "learn" the intricacies of the other's behavior and personality.
We reasoned that in general, there could only be two responses to such a decision. Either "you know when you know," trusting in the intuition of the body when presented with a person/relationship, or you believe that in fact that there's a certain number of interactions you need with someone before you largely are able to predict their response to a certain stimuli. Once you can predict their responses, you can then determine if this outcome, presented a certain percentage of the time, is something you can deal with in a partnership.
Brian said he felt that the latter was his perception. I find it really interesting that this is how he approaches rock climbs, specifically projecting routes of a certain grade. Brian will approach each climb with a very strategic plan for eventually redpointing the route. His training regimen leading up to his eventual success on the route will have a designed proportion of endurance, power/bouldering, anabolic and anaerobic components. He'll have done a certain number of routes at varying levels of difficulty proceeding his desired project. He perceives and runs his life largely the same way he spends his energy towards his greatest passion - climbing.
When he asked me how I saw things, I told him I'd like to think you know when you know, but in fact I was probably more mechanical. Largely, I believe you can control a situation and engineer certain desired outcomes based upon behavior. I find it very interesting, however, that my biggest conflicts during serious relationships have been times when I go straight from emotion to action, effectively neutering my ability to analyze and prepare myself, planning my actions. I'm no longer behaving in a way designed, so to speak, to bring me the most "good."
And the second behavioral concept we were talking about might be entirely driven by hormones. Take that with a grain of salt and the reality that it could very well be an uneducated and misinformed judgment by the author when he speaks of a group he doesn't usually understand: women.
My friend Jesse (boy) has heard of a a theory, and is fond of passing it along, that when women turn 31.5, they have a chemical change that says they want a kid. First of all, 31.5 is a great number, as it sounds so precise and scientific. It's probably just an ingenious detail that provides a great hook, or at least some sort of rounding for average.
If a woman is 31.5, her biological odds of having a healthy baby are widely understood to begin to decrease dramatically. It seems plausible to believe that through evolution, humans have come to largely exhibit similar behavior. So normal a group can't be spontaneous in the face of estrogen, testosterone, progesterone, and human chorionic gonadotropin. Can they?
This isn't to say that ALL 31.5 year old women will all feel the exact same way about kids. Lots of them may, though, and that might be enough to wonder if, in general, similar demographics are going to turn out a certain way most of the time.
Speaking of Jesse...he is a third grade teacher, and will ask his kiddos a "question of the day." He'll write the question on the board and provide a list of possible answers, and the kids move a name tag into the answer with which they most agree. Some of his recent questions:
Q: What Would Make Colorado a Better Place (Pick one)
A1: Monkeys
A2: The Beach
A3: Disneyland
A4: Volcanoes
A5: Dinosaurs
(Q: The sad winner? A3)
I wonder if he'll ask the kids if A1: humans are willing to throw caution to the wind, marry a sweetheart and knock her up when she's 24 (regardless of whether she's biologically facing a deadline,) or A2: are we nothing more than robots programmed with an identifiable quota of chemicals and experience that make us all largely predicable. Me? I'll always vote for the stegosaurus. A5.
Whatcha reckon?
In a perhaps related twist of my neurons, I've been wondering if I'll find a woman with whom I'll finally fall totally in love. Will she come to pass me in a supermarket, smile a dashing hello and turn out to intertwine so perfectly with my heart that I'll find it impossible to walk away? Or will I merely wake up one day and decide that another year of solitary bachelorhood is something I couldn't abide, finally feeling the comfort in certainty when I decide, once and for all, that an 84/100 is a very winnable hand, and I might as well throw in my chips to make sure.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Jackson Equipment Troubles
Getting back up to Wyoming with my buddy Ethan has largely been a great time. Fortunately for the visual integrity of this blog, we've taken a bunch of pictures. Some of the good ones are attached. We've also been eating great food, drinking lots of beer, and skiing a ton. Well, we had been skiing a ton. He's up on the mountain right now, and I'm running around town, pissed off at all of my stuff.I've broken a binding that's been giving me trouble all season, and am about to head over into Idaho (just over Teton Pass, not nearly the journey I make it out to be) where they're made to try to get the manufacturer to warranty the trouble. But that's really the minor trouble, given my spare pair of skis in the car. I was able to swap the bindings and not miss a beat. The real trouble began yesterday when i was getting ready to call it a day and
flying down the mountain on the tamest run of the day, some groomer named Hanna.Like a sniper had taken me in his sights and pulled the trigger, I hit the ground before I knew anything irregular had happened. After sliding down the snow for about 200 feet, snow all down my pants but physically fine, I looked down at the damage to try to figure out what the hell happened. My boot had broken in a crucial place, and the tongue was torn from the shell. Oops. I was leaning into the turn right when the plastic gave way, and I'm just glad I didn't get hurt.
I've got to rent a pair of boots for the last day of skiing tomorrow, but luckily there's a shop that has what I need, and snow is in the forecast. Hopefully, lots of it, because the snowpack is pretty bony right now. Oh well.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Jackson Report
Well, wireless at the condo in Jackson is weak. Ethan and I raced down to The Bunnery, a little bakery in town with an internet connection, and we're currently inhaling croissants and coffee. About to head out for a mellow ski day touring on Teton Pass, and just wanted to give a little nod to my Voyeurs and let you know I didn't forget about ya.
The snow is a little bare, but we've been blessed with insane views of the Grand and nice, spring-like conditions.
More soon, hopefully.
The snow is a little bare, but we've been blessed with insane views of the Grand and nice, spring-like conditions.
More soon, hopefully.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
En Route
I'm out of town again, this time headed towards Jackson Hole for a week of skiing with my buddy, Ethan. I rarely just go somewhere on vacation without trying to finagle work into paying for it, so I'm in Glenwood now, Meeker in a few hours, and Rock Springs tonight. Before I ski at the foot of the Tetons, I make a quick trip over to Grand Rapids, MI for a funeral. Busy busy.
I want to share a couple of quick ideas before I hop into Abby and hit the road. First, there have been requests from a few readers to post a "Thought of the Day" or some other kind of half-baked idea. Not necessarily a full blown blog post, but certainly something that The Voyeurs can check in on and hopefully get a quick laugh. I like it, and I'm going to try it out. I'll play with the headers so you'll know what to look for, but maybe TD/HBI or something...
I might not be able to get something posted each and every day, but without the pressure of needing to come up with a full blown story, it should be easy to get three or four of these each week, in addition to my regular posting.
Now one quick story about this current journey to the West Slope and Wyoming. I work with this team of surveyors and engineers out of Rock Springs, WY, but I've never met them face to face. I thought that since I'd be through town, I would love to stop in their office. This way, I could introduce myself and put faces with the names and voices I talk to on a daily basis.
In this survey/engineer team, there are really two individuals I have consistent contact with. There is a crusty, wizened old man who seems like he knows every answer to any technical question, and his sidekick, a woman who does a ton of the drawings and finished products (maps and spreadsheets.) I use their documents all the time, and feel like I'm asking them for all kinds of help on design questions.
I called the woman to tell her my travel plans, and ask if they'd be in the office Thursday night around 5 or 6. She said they would, and we both agreed that it would be nice to meet up. I suggested I take the two of them out to dinner to say thanks for all the work they do for Williams. When they're not churning out drawings for pipelines, the older gentleman will occasionally send out emails detailing his vacation plans, and I have talked to her on the phone now for over a year, slowly learning some of the details of her life, as well. She'll talk about family vacations, as well, and tell me about her two sons, both my age.
After our phone conversation, I got an email from the woman, and she was pretty flustered. She wasn't sure what the context was that I had asked her to dinner. I sent back an email trying to diffuse any embarrassment or confusion, simply stating that I'd love to meet anyone from the office and that things were very informal. To have kids my age, she has to be at least 50, and I realized that she'd never met me. I like to think that I can handle myself on the phone like a proper adult, but she has no idea I'm 28 and look like I'm about 22. It might come as a surprise to her. I guess she thought I was asking her out on a date....oops.
Tonight might be an interesting dinner....I'll keep you posted.
I want to share a couple of quick ideas before I hop into Abby and hit the road. First, there have been requests from a few readers to post a "Thought of the Day" or some other kind of half-baked idea. Not necessarily a full blown blog post, but certainly something that The Voyeurs can check in on and hopefully get a quick laugh. I like it, and I'm going to try it out. I'll play with the headers so you'll know what to look for, but maybe TD/HBI or something...
I might not be able to get something posted each and every day, but without the pressure of needing to come up with a full blown story, it should be easy to get three or four of these each week, in addition to my regular posting.
Now one quick story about this current journey to the West Slope and Wyoming. I work with this team of surveyors and engineers out of Rock Springs, WY, but I've never met them face to face. I thought that since I'd be through town, I would love to stop in their office. This way, I could introduce myself and put faces with the names and voices I talk to on a daily basis.
In this survey/engineer team, there are really two individuals I have consistent contact with. There is a crusty, wizened old man who seems like he knows every answer to any technical question, and his sidekick, a woman who does a ton of the drawings and finished products (maps and spreadsheets.) I use their documents all the time, and feel like I'm asking them for all kinds of help on design questions.
I called the woman to tell her my travel plans, and ask if they'd be in the office Thursday night around 5 or 6. She said they would, and we both agreed that it would be nice to meet up. I suggested I take the two of them out to dinner to say thanks for all the work they do for Williams. When they're not churning out drawings for pipelines, the older gentleman will occasionally send out emails detailing his vacation plans, and I have talked to her on the phone now for over a year, slowly learning some of the details of her life, as well. She'll talk about family vacations, as well, and tell me about her two sons, both my age.
After our phone conversation, I got an email from the woman, and she was pretty flustered. She wasn't sure what the context was that I had asked her to dinner. I sent back an email trying to diffuse any embarrassment or confusion, simply stating that I'd love to meet anyone from the office and that things were very informal. To have kids my age, she has to be at least 50, and I realized that she'd never met me. I like to think that I can handle myself on the phone like a proper adult, but she has no idea I'm 28 and look like I'm about 22. It might come as a surprise to her. I guess she thought I was asking her out on a date....oops.
Tonight might be an interesting dinner....I'll keep you posted.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
The Project Dilemma
Oh, what a strange way to live a life. My friend Mike tried to enumerate what it must be like for a person who doesn't climb were they to describe the whole dance: "So, you put your fingers into cracks in the rock and twist them until they bleed...?"
In a sense, yeah. But trust me, it's more than that. A little blood is just superficial damage. It's all worth it. Climbing is the most valuable way I've ever found to spend my time. I love (most of) the people I climb with. Many areas are stunning in their natural beauty. And the act itself is a version of yoga. Our bodies contort into these particular positions that are unique and esoteric. If we lose balance, coming out of the "pose," gravity calls. We've got to have strong bodies to do this, but in reality, mental focus and emotional control are equally important. If you don't clear away the clutter, climbing's impossible. Ego, desire, stress...they're all weights to be discarded.
And working routes or boulder problems that are at the edge of what feels possible that day, month, or year? Those "projects" that become the object of obsession? Those are headstands, handstands, the splits. They're levitation. They're magic. Take something that feels impossibly difficult, and slowly chip away at it. Learn subtle ways to move your hips as you stand on tip-toe, or the best place for your thumb on a divot or rock. Enmesh yourself with a tiny piece of the physical world. Borrow a little piece of it, make it your love, your playground. Now you've got a project.
Sometimes that desire to eventually succeed, that same weight that only holds you down, gets painfully intense. I wanted to do Table of Colors at The Red, but I had a deadline looming and wasn't able to learn everything I needed before the bell rang, ending my time in Kentucky. I had to walk away, unrequited. Right now, I'm hugely focused on a route up in Boulder Canyon called Vasodialator. Indeed, it gets the sanguine juice flowing. I've got to do it quickly, though, or I'll have to walk away.
I spend so much time projecting in Rifle, but it's too cold out there this time of year. In my back yard is a granite canyon, so far removed in character from the limestone out west which eats my summer and fall. Up this local drainage only a few minutes from my door, smattered with igneous faces, Vasodialator rests like a sphinx. The aspect faces south, so the sun will catch the stone and warm the holds even if the air temperature is wintry. Assuming, that is, that the sun is shining.
The last few times I'd been up to try the route, those necessary UV rays have played coy, hiding behind the clouds like nervous teens against the wall at a school dance. Come play soon, because I'm looking like an ass out here on the floor, shaking my best Electric Slide in solitude. I've tried in vain recently, knowing that my time, again, is limited. The rock face that holds Vasodialator closes on February 1 in order to allow nesting birds the chance to rear young in privacy. I want to get it done, but that mental pressure I'm putting on myself might well be the very thing that's keeping me from success.
I certainly can't blame my partners. Blake and Jason, two good buddies, have each offered to hike up to Blob Rock (such a terrible name) on their off days to give me a needed belay on the route. I can't sufficiently express how much I appreciate their sacrifice. The hike is steep, the belay is cold, and the rewards have, so far, been non existent. This weekend, it looks like I'll have my final chance to get up there, again with Jason, and try to relax as I do battle with my own personal nemesis before the birds take it away.
***
The physical act of climbing has drawn me in and stolen my attention. At the end of the day, though, it is largely a metaphor. The Project Dilemma is yet another lens through which I can view my life, hopefully gaining perspective and improving. Here I want something so badly, but in wanting it, I overgrip, hasten my breath, and have no choice but to feel gravity's insatiable grip.
At a party last week, I saw my longtime friend Josh Finkelstein. I always enjoy his company and conversation, but with his residence in Denver and mine in Boulder, we don't cross paths as often as I'd like. At our last meeting, we were catching up, laughing and telling jokes and stories. Before I knew it, my mind was distancing itself from the catch up session as I planned on the next time Josh and I could get out and climb together, or perhaps grab a beer.
Back to the present, PattyP! I had to let go of that desire to plan the future and, once able, I was back in the company of old pals.
In a sense, yeah. But trust me, it's more than that. A little blood is just superficial damage. It's all worth it. Climbing is the most valuable way I've ever found to spend my time. I love (most of) the people I climb with. Many areas are stunning in their natural beauty. And the act itself is a version of yoga. Our bodies contort into these particular positions that are unique and esoteric. If we lose balance, coming out of the "pose," gravity calls. We've got to have strong bodies to do this, but in reality, mental focus and emotional control are equally important. If you don't clear away the clutter, climbing's impossible. Ego, desire, stress...they're all weights to be discarded.
And working routes or boulder problems that are at the edge of what feels possible that day, month, or year? Those "projects" that become the object of obsession? Those are headstands, handstands, the splits. They're levitation. They're magic. Take something that feels impossibly difficult, and slowly chip away at it. Learn subtle ways to move your hips as you stand on tip-toe, or the best place for your thumb on a divot or rock. Enmesh yourself with a tiny piece of the physical world. Borrow a little piece of it, make it your love, your playground. Now you've got a project.
Sometimes that desire to eventually succeed, that same weight that only holds you down, gets painfully intense. I wanted to do Table of Colors at The Red, but I had a deadline looming and wasn't able to learn everything I needed before the bell rang, ending my time in Kentucky. I had to walk away, unrequited. Right now, I'm hugely focused on a route up in Boulder Canyon called Vasodialator. Indeed, it gets the sanguine juice flowing. I've got to do it quickly, though, or I'll have to walk away.
I spend so much time projecting in Rifle, but it's too cold out there this time of year. In my back yard is a granite canyon, so far removed in character from the limestone out west which eats my summer and fall. Up this local drainage only a few minutes from my door, smattered with igneous faces, Vasodialator rests like a sphinx. The aspect faces south, so the sun will catch the stone and warm the holds even if the air temperature is wintry. Assuming, that is, that the sun is shining.
The last few times I'd been up to try the route, those necessary UV rays have played coy, hiding behind the clouds like nervous teens against the wall at a school dance. Come play soon, because I'm looking like an ass out here on the floor, shaking my best Electric Slide in solitude. I've tried in vain recently, knowing that my time, again, is limited. The rock face that holds Vasodialator closes on February 1 in order to allow nesting birds the chance to rear young in privacy. I want to get it done, but that mental pressure I'm putting on myself might well be the very thing that's keeping me from success.
I certainly can't blame my partners. Blake and Jason, two good buddies, have each offered to hike up to Blob Rock (such a terrible name) on their off days to give me a needed belay on the route. I can't sufficiently express how much I appreciate their sacrifice. The hike is steep, the belay is cold, and the rewards have, so far, been non existent. This weekend, it looks like I'll have my final chance to get up there, again with Jason, and try to relax as I do battle with my own personal nemesis before the birds take it away.
***
The physical act of climbing has drawn me in and stolen my attention. At the end of the day, though, it is largely a metaphor. The Project Dilemma is yet another lens through which I can view my life, hopefully gaining perspective and improving. Here I want something so badly, but in wanting it, I overgrip, hasten my breath, and have no choice but to feel gravity's insatiable grip.
At a party last week, I saw my longtime friend Josh Finkelstein. I always enjoy his company and conversation, but with his residence in Denver and mine in Boulder, we don't cross paths as often as I'd like. At our last meeting, we were catching up, laughing and telling jokes and stories. Before I knew it, my mind was distancing itself from the catch up session as I planned on the next time Josh and I could get out and climb together, or perhaps grab a beer.
Back to the present, PattyP! I had to let go of that desire to plan the future and, once able, I was back in the company of old pals.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Losing It
There's a phrase used at hospitals for a terminal patient who is about to go. They're "circling the drain". Such a description is, oh, what's the word? Hummm. It's not romantic, exactly. Colloquial, yes, that's the one. Pleasant and descriptive, it takes the edge off such an unpleasant eventuality. So much easier to think of someone as a piece of flotsam, suspended in the bathwater, moments away from a softly audible "gulp" and then a fun-filled water park ride through a network of pipes, perhaps some bleach at the behest of the local Water Works Department, and finally, the East River.
Certainly the doctors and nurses who look down upon the ailing and fading grandmother understand that there is a human story under that paper thin hospital gown. After all, how could they not? There's a likely gaggle of wailing family begging for answers and scientific justification as to how the hell this could have happened. "This is America, damnit, and there's no excuse for aging! Don't tell me Nana isn't going to make it. Fix her up and let us take her back home. Produce that time machine you've been hiding and return to me the spry 70 year old sass-pot who loves to dance and tells me stories of her boyfriends before the war."
But then the sad realization for the gaggle. Nana's not coming back. She's, oh, how do we put it? She's circling the drain. The inexorable marching of time.
I've burned through 28 years, and can't get away from the feeling that these grains of sand are too quickly falling through the hour glass. I sometimes think it might be easier if all of us knew the exact date we'd be called back from recess, forced to give up our Earthly bodies and move on to whatever comes next.
I'm 1 for 2 in the Dying Nana Department. The day my father's mother passed away, we were getting ready for dinner in the kitchen when the phone rang. I suppose as a function of the fact that the children were 18, 16, 16, and 14, we were all milling around and basically in the same room. Any time the universe has shattering news to deliver, it's easier, I assume, that the primary interested parties hear it simultaneously. This was before the widespread adoption of cell phones, and I imagine the Reaper was happy to save on long distance charges.
In this particular case, the Reaper was my great uncle, T-Mac. Before Jennifer Lopez was JLO, Alex Rodriguez was A-Roid, and Tracy McGrady rose to basketball stardom, ascending to such a lofty nickname, my grandmother's brother was named Tyson MacRae. The original T-Mac dialed our home and I answered the phone. Without even a moment to think about why this seldom heard voice was calling, T-Mac asked for my father and I passed the receiver. My dad almost immediately sank down into a chair and made a sound I'd never heard from him before. To be quite honest, I'd give up climbing for the assurance that I will never have to hear him so instantaneously demolished again. I remember thinking that he sounded like a man had kicked him in the ribs with a steel toed boot, the air so forcefully coming out of him while he struggled to control its exodus.
My father, standing, unflappable and always in control of what he'd say and do.
My father, slumped over, turned inside out.
As we'd all come to understand in those next teary, demoralizing few minutes, my grandmother, GiGi we'd called her, had died of a massive heart attack while waiting for her luggage to arrive at the baggage claim of the San Fransisco airport. In a very public setting, she'd clutched her chest, lost consciousness, and died before she fell to the floor. I find it interesting to think that somewhere in the world are at least several people who remember a day in August, back in 1999, when they witnessed a woman pass away. There they stood, extras in this scene, without even knowing it.
In a way, this was easier than having a prolonged decay. I had visited my grandmother earlier that summer and remember the final time I'd seen her. Again, an airport, this time in Dallas. In those bucolic days before we knew of the maniacs planning our violent demise, a grandmother could walk to the gate with her grandson and wish him safe travels back to Colorado. The grandson could look back for the laboring woman, her aging lungs struggling to keep up with the demands for oxygenated blood. He'd see her seated on a bench, alive now, but fading. He'd know, somewhere deep down and yet unspeakable, that this was the last time he would see her alive. But at least he could come to such a sad realization at the gate, on the safe side of security clearance.
A few weeks after waving goodbye at the airport, I'd return to Dallas with my family and we'd bury Gigi. I'd speak at the funeral, shake T-Mac's hand and try to act like a man. If memory serves, I would largely succeed. Sadness certainly prevailed at the event, but I felt a level of understanding with the order of things. I think I could reason the loss with the knowledge that I'd said goodbye, and that it was time for her to go. I'd come to peace with Gigi's circles, and just in time.
Certainly the doctors and nurses who look down upon the ailing and fading grandmother understand that there is a human story under that paper thin hospital gown. After all, how could they not? There's a likely gaggle of wailing family begging for answers and scientific justification as to how the hell this could have happened. "This is America, damnit, and there's no excuse for aging! Don't tell me Nana isn't going to make it. Fix her up and let us take her back home. Produce that time machine you've been hiding and return to me the spry 70 year old sass-pot who loves to dance and tells me stories of her boyfriends before the war."
But then the sad realization for the gaggle. Nana's not coming back. She's, oh, how do we put it? She's circling the drain. The inexorable marching of time.
I've burned through 28 years, and can't get away from the feeling that these grains of sand are too quickly falling through the hour glass. I sometimes think it might be easier if all of us knew the exact date we'd be called back from recess, forced to give up our Earthly bodies and move on to whatever comes next.
I'm 1 for 2 in the Dying Nana Department. The day my father's mother passed away, we were getting ready for dinner in the kitchen when the phone rang. I suppose as a function of the fact that the children were 18, 16, 16, and 14, we were all milling around and basically in the same room. Any time the universe has shattering news to deliver, it's easier, I assume, that the primary interested parties hear it simultaneously. This was before the widespread adoption of cell phones, and I imagine the Reaper was happy to save on long distance charges.
In this particular case, the Reaper was my great uncle, T-Mac. Before Jennifer Lopez was JLO, Alex Rodriguez was A-Roid, and Tracy McGrady rose to basketball stardom, ascending to such a lofty nickname, my grandmother's brother was named Tyson MacRae. The original T-Mac dialed our home and I answered the phone. Without even a moment to think about why this seldom heard voice was calling, T-Mac asked for my father and I passed the receiver. My dad almost immediately sank down into a chair and made a sound I'd never heard from him before. To be quite honest, I'd give up climbing for the assurance that I will never have to hear him so instantaneously demolished again. I remember thinking that he sounded like a man had kicked him in the ribs with a steel toed boot, the air so forcefully coming out of him while he struggled to control its exodus.
My father, standing, unflappable and always in control of what he'd say and do.
My father, slumped over, turned inside out.
As we'd all come to understand in those next teary, demoralizing few minutes, my grandmother, GiGi we'd called her, had died of a massive heart attack while waiting for her luggage to arrive at the baggage claim of the San Fransisco airport. In a very public setting, she'd clutched her chest, lost consciousness, and died before she fell to the floor. I find it interesting to think that somewhere in the world are at least several people who remember a day in August, back in 1999, when they witnessed a woman pass away. There they stood, extras in this scene, without even knowing it.
In a way, this was easier than having a prolonged decay. I had visited my grandmother earlier that summer and remember the final time I'd seen her. Again, an airport, this time in Dallas. In those bucolic days before we knew of the maniacs planning our violent demise, a grandmother could walk to the gate with her grandson and wish him safe travels back to Colorado. The grandson could look back for the laboring woman, her aging lungs struggling to keep up with the demands for oxygenated blood. He'd see her seated on a bench, alive now, but fading. He'd know, somewhere deep down and yet unspeakable, that this was the last time he would see her alive. But at least he could come to such a sad realization at the gate, on the safe side of security clearance.
A few weeks after waving goodbye at the airport, I'd return to Dallas with my family and we'd bury Gigi. I'd speak at the funeral, shake T-Mac's hand and try to act like a man. If memory serves, I would largely succeed. Sadness certainly prevailed at the event, but I felt a level of understanding with the order of things. I think I could reason the loss with the knowledge that I'd said goodbye, and that it was time for her to go. I'd come to peace with Gigi's circles, and just in time.
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