by susan | Aug 15, 2022 | Uncategorized
here I go again, giddy over a word.
it began with research into carabiners, which led to research into climbing ropes, which led me to attempt to understand rope construction. my head began to spin as I tried to understand the three-strand hawser rope, because “with the lay” and “against the lay” are unfamiliar terms, and possibly also because the accompanying graphic was from the 1943 Seamen’s Pocketbook.
I decided I didn’t really need to understand that design, essentially because the climbing world moved on.
the latest iterations of climbing rope are light years beyond those used a century ago, which has led to an increased number of climbers surviving falls. most significant was the discovery of nylon, and its introduction into climbing rope, adding elasticity and strength. in 1953 the “kernmantle” design was born, brought to life by a german company, edelrid, and remains key to climbing ropes to this day; its mantle and core provide strength and stretchiness for dynamic—more elastic—and for static—less elastic—ropes.
I smile at the name for this design, yet its origin is not complex: the “kern” or core consists of nylon filaments which are spun into yarn, which is then twisted to form a ply, and then a few of these are twisted together, creating a bundle. several bundles form the kern. the mantle is simply a nylon sheath that is braided around the core or kern. ta-da.
I often think about the multitudes of people who have eased my path in this life. from safe climbing ropes to motors and engines to medical discoveries to electricity, to the convenience of grocery stores and internet shopping, to the gifts of companionship and camaraderie and support, I have benefitted tremendously, in ways I cannot even express, from the creativity of others who came before me.
if I can but pass along love and gratitude, is that enough?
by susan | May 8, 2022 | Uncategorized
all he needed was courage, correct? and after convinced he’d been given a healthy dose of courage, he began to act courageously.
l. frank baum, through his character the cowardly lion, drew a picture for us all of both the placebo effect and the importance of our internal dialogue and beliefs.
I think about this daily, this understanding of myself, that I could cower inside my introverted self, or I could pretend I am courageous and thus do things that scare the bejeezus out of me. I’ve been working on this for years–decades actually–and I, like the cowardly lion, have made progress. sometimes acting “as if” actually works.
and at times I fail. at times, fear takes over and I become reactive or recessive.
prajna is a buddhist concept, essentially meaning clear insight, intuition of ultimate truth, pure and unqualified knowledge.
when we can connect with intrinsic truth, in whatever our situation, by digging down, distilling, letting go of our protective devices, peeling off all the layers down to our essence, we practice prajna. and this can tell us where we need to go.
breath, life. essence, peace.
by susan | Apr 20, 2022 | Uncategorized
a couple years ago I had an encounter with an owl. it swooped across my chest as I was cycling one dark, pre-dawn morning, which scared and excited and thrilled me. I’d been in the midst of heartbreak and despair, and the message I took from this experience was, there is more to come. everything will be okay. life will continue to present you with opportunities to expand, to experience awe and wonder.
today I again sit with heartbreak. and twice during the past few days I have seen an owl, perched on a branch of a tree, near that 2019 encounter. while one message could be that there are owls everywhere, I choose to take it as a reminder that life is everywhere, life continues, life will always offer me opportunities to expand, to experience awe and wonder.
and yes, there are dragons.
here be dragons is the english translation of “hic sunt dracones,” a phrase purported to have been written on maps, long ago, to denote uncharted territories–potentially dangerous and filled with monsters, serpents, and unknown evils. one intrepid researcher found not a single ancient map to have those words written upon it, but did find the words upon a globe built in 1510. regardless, the phrase represents all the potential pitfalls out there in the unknown.
I like the idea of dragons in our uncharted, unknown reaches. we know they’re there. what we forget is that we are all, at heart, dragon tamers. we rediscover courage when we remember this piece of who we are.
and then the owls. they are there, too. to remind us that life is filled with the spectacular, the unexpected, the curious. albert einstein is credited with telling us that we may either consider that nothing in life is a miracle, or that everything in life is a miracle.
live the latter.
by susan | Oct 30, 2019 | Uncategorized
deep, dark morning, while most slumber, is a bewitching time of day up my canyon. deer lower their heads to graze, porcupines waddle along the edge of the road, coyotes trot through sage and grass, crickets sing, songbirds hail one another, owls look down and peruse their kingdoms.
during late spring and early fall the sun gradually lightens the landscape as I ride, and I seek silhouettes and vague forms that delineate as I near. as fall stretches forward and the days shorten, I attune to sound alone, as my vision is limited to the small cone thrown by my front bicycle light.
with any bit of light, I’ve learned to search for owls atop spindly, lifeless trees, and now know which trees are most often inhabited by these predators. at times an owl calls and I am kept, by the dark, from spotting it; instead I experience a spark of joy from the challenge of pinpointing, sightless, its perch. owls are there; they watch me pass.
one early october morning, I crested the summit, and coasted down toward the reservoir. as the road leveled and turned south, I resumed pedaling. well behind me, still at the summit, approaching headlights shot downhill.
a large shadow—dark against dark—appeared far to my left, a strange effect of the headlights, I thought. then the shadow moved closer, again in my peripheral vision, an illusion, perhaps. the shadow was then shockingly close, my nerves tingled, and suddenly an owl swept across me, left to right, its wings and torso millimeters from my head and arms. brown, darker brown, a pattern almost striped, I impossibly felt its feathers against my skin, its body against my own.
gone.
I pedaled.
the truck passed me, its headlights piercing the opacity.
I rode to the reservoir, jubilant, astonished. I turned and began my trek home.
jubilant.
astonished.
by susan | Mar 11, 2019 | Uncategorized
(from a work-in-progress)
I walk the desert, thinking of ocean.
anyone who’s spent time at the seashore has witnessed the drawback of water—the exposure of sand and detritus from the last wave, the deep breath of the ocean—before the next wave crashes against the beach’s sandy edge. an empty moment, purposeful, portentous. I imagine this as a metaphor in my life, that I am in the drawback, the removal of what had been in order to cleanse and prepare for what is next. that pause—an interminable dreamlike state that once ended, slips and disappears into folds of memory—which is filled with vision and clarity, the sharp pang of loneliness, self-scrutiny, despair, joy, a sense of dread that perhaps it will never end, and moments of delight painful in their intensity. a pause, an absence. a void that is not in any way a void.
what inspires this thought is a dry wash, a site of former storm run-off that is now a parched channel, cut into a shallow of the hillside. water, gushing, frothing and spilling over the edges; an image familiar yet likely not witnessed here during the past five months. water, precious is this part of the world, a gift from the storm gods. our mountains aren’t formed in a way that allows them to stretch high and poke heavy, moisture-laden clouds, causing them to unleash daily showers, like those in a part of Colorado I once knew. showers in Estes Park, where my grandparents’ cabin sat, were as dependable, each afternoon shortly after lunch, as the warm hug I’d receive from my grandma each morning. those showers enforced downtime, craft time, book time. how would this desert I’m in respond to a daily sprinkle of moisture? cacti may rot, flora might actually flower. dust would give up its rush to fill the air, would instead settle more deeply into companionship with neighbors and colleagues. wild horses would root out more to eat, with less energy expended in doing so. we pray for many things here in Utah, one of the most common being rain. we pray and wait, we sit in that absence.
if I rest in the drawback, take a deep breath, allow it to be, I feel sensation that speaks of both comfort and deep disquiet. fear, this must be fear, the unknown, the unlimited potential for harm. a lack of faith, rooted in what lies behind me, tries to overtake me. I breathe through it, remain in the present, press the toe of my shoe into the crumbling earth of the dry wash. moving my shoe back and forth, I soften the edge, smooth it. I can’t know what lies ahead; the only way to prepare for the unknown is to move deeper into oneself, to center, to ground. breath. footstep followed by footstep. om, mani padme hum.
the incoming wave could devour me; it could be meek and insufficient, leaving me unfulfilled, inducing yet another wandering path.
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