by susan | Dec 31, 2022 | Uncategorized
on this last day of the year 2022, I went skate skiing. the forecast called for snow all day, with temperatures hovering right around freezing the entire time. some snow had fallen during the night, but the overnight temperatures barely slipped below freezing.
this is not ideal for the ski track.
nevertheless, I (quelle surprise) was determined to ski, and headed up the canyon, hoping to be skiing by the time the track was groomed.
this past year has brought me tremendous personal growth, and tremendous personal pain. I don’t remember much about who I was a year ago; I do know that the me who types this today is wiser, more capable, more accepting, and more able to connect with those who ache because of how much I’ve ached these past ten months. I thought I’d known loss and grief, but what I’ve learned is that each new experience of them has the opportunity to take one even deeper into pain and open up new places within. these new places offer opportunity to understand, connect with, and perhaps even silently speak to fellow humans who have similar, internal pain-created reservoirs.
the ski track this morning was less than ideal. the first thirty-minute stretch I skied hadn’t been groomed, was covered in a few inches of heavy, wet snow, and had been walked on and skied on a little, leaving a surface that was hard–tiring–to traverse. okay, exhausting. I then stayed on groomed trails which were much better, but still heavy and wet and soft ~ not things we love a ski track to be (we like smooth, firm, fast!).
it sleeted on me. the wind was fiercely in my face at times, and I felt battered.
and I kept going.
I grew up skiing, alpine, at ski resorts. my family would ski at night because passes were inexpensive (think colder than you can imagine). I skied when the family skied, and conditions weren’t always perfect.
then after college I became a spring skier, a nice-day-only skier. forget the freezing, blizzardy days. no way. I might go ski if it were nice out and someone I liked invited me.
and now, I find myself out there whether the sun is out or not, whether the track is great or not, or whether it’s zero degrees or thirty-five. I ski, I take what comes, I learn, I grow stronger. I let those less-than-ideal conditions work to help me become a better human.
as I was nearing the end of my session this morning, approaching the long stretch of trail back to my car that is a gradual descent and ever-so-appreciated, I was drawing the comparison of today’s ski with this past year. each has made me a better human. today, because I toughed it out and experienced our amazing world in its glory. this year, because I toughed it out and remembered to experience our amazing world in its glory.
life is sacred.
this year I haven’t always been at peace, or happy, or even content, but I know I’ve grown. my heart has been working to repair itself, and has, I believe, put itself back together even better than it was before. it feels bigger, and even more genuine, if that can be.
none of us know what this next year will bring us.
however, I hope you all are able to join me in letting go of the one at its end, to thank it for its lessons, to thank it for keeping us tethered to this earth, to express gratitude for its commitment to helping us become better humans.
namaste.
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 | Jul 18, 2022 | Uncategorized
twenty years ago I was committed to living a life without regret.
now I realize the naivety of that position, and that I could likely fill a page or two–or ten–with the things I’ve done, said, or chosen that I now truly wish I hadn’t.
perhaps this is simply the wisdom that comes with age (that is so very hard to type, this acknowledgment that I have absolutely aged), with wider perspective, with greater awareness. regardless of its origins,
it has led me to a place of surrender. to truly accept that all is as it is, and to understand that my trying to make things happen is rarely helpful to anyone. to accept that my role right now is to be aware, insightful, patient, grateful, generous, and loving. to have those intangible, oh-so-difficult-to hold-onto things we call trust and faith.
to have a deep trust in the universe. I’ve tried it the other way, and now I surrender.
so far, it’s feeling pretty good. I hope that my list of regrets will stay at its current length, that I’m done adding to those pages.
by susan | Apr 10, 2022 | Uncategorized
not that I’d rather be something else, but being human is hard. damn hard.
yesterday I wrote a bigger-than-expected check for taxes, received word that I did NOT receive a residency I’d applied for, had a client cancel last minute, and broke a tooth eating a carrot.
today has been better.
tomorrow… I have no idea.
where do we find the courage to continue?
I began this post three years ago, march of 2019, an entire life ago. and I pulled it out of my drafts folder last night when my dog peed on my new rug, my electrical outlets in my bedroom stopped working, and I found myself tearful at dinner with friends because they all seem to have better connections with their loved ones than I seem to.
it’s damn hard to be human.
in the past three years I have experienced incredible moments and times and events, felt awe and wonder and gratitude and appreciation. I’ve been gifted with love and support. I’ve received over and over again. I’ve experienced times of belief in both myself, and in my ability to create the fulfilling life I desire. and I’ve also experienced loss, grief, frustration, impotence. anger. sorrow. moments of hopelessness. times when one of my first thoughts of the day is, I can’t wait to put my pajamas back on and go bed tonight.
and yet, here I am.
hear I am. listen.
like most everyone else, I will keep moving. I will listen to myself, to my heart, and make every attempt to follow where it wishes to lead me. it doesn’t always make sense to me, but I continue to believe that one day it will. rachel botsman describes trust as an active, responsible ‘confident engagement with the unknown.’ let me, let us all, learn to truly trust.
signing off, perfectly imperfect human that I am,
and sending all the love in the world your way. may you always feel the hands and hearts of others holding you.
by susan | Mar 21, 2022 | Uncategorized
I have large hands. Strong, capable. They can reach a tenth on the piano: an octave plus two. I’ve at times been embarrassed to hold hands with a boy because mine often equals in size or—quel nightmare—outsizes his. Sometimes it’s a delightful coupling, fingers knit together, skin smooth, a bone match.
Lifelines, fingerprints, things we are born with, that die with us, unique, designs of our skin.
Long ago, perhaps 800 years before us, a gathering of Anasazi built a home in the cleft of a rock ledge. They built rooms, separating them with walls made of rock and mud. They created look-out holes, and places to store corn and seeds and nuts. They added decorative touches to some walls—small stones of varied colors—and painted others. Some walls were smoothed by the passage of time, moisture, wind. And others were smoothed by hands.
There are myriad ways to play with mud. A potter shapes clay, a toddler splashes dirty pools of water with hands or feet. Some squeeze it between their toes. Others pay hefty fees to sit in it, be coated with it; some of us have the same experience at the edges of riverbanks. Soft, moist earth is sensuous, decadent, pleasure inducing.
It can also be practical, necessary; we build tools, instruments that facilitate our daily tasks. As the Anasazi built pots and urns and walls.
I stand before a handmade wall at Moon House Ruin. The red brown mud, patted into place all those centuries ago, still holds fingerprints, lifelines, the unique designs of those hands that created this wall. I lift my hand and place it gently upon the indentation of someone else’s hand. Gratitude, honor flood me. I am somehow able, through solidified earth, to touch one facet of a human who created a home in this cleft of rock ledge an eon ago. Eight hundred years ago the human being who shaped this wall could never have imagined me, in my Scarpa shoes and Outdoor Research jacket, my Old Navy tights and Smartwool socks, my iPhone and Camelback and Kind bar in my Osprey backpack. Who else has placed their hand against these dips and swirls and indentations? And for how many more decades, centuries, will others continue to do so?
I have found a man whose fingers knit with mine, whose palm neatly presses against my own. He stands with me at this wall, places his hand into the same whorled depression, and shares with me the wonder of being a human upon this earth.
Moon House Ruin is on Cedar Mesa in Bears Ears National Monument.
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