A few years ago a friend (my lover at the time), asked me if I wanted to go bouldering. For those of you who are unfamiliar, bouldering is essentially rock-climbing but without all of the contraptions. The walls are shorter, the courses designed to be safely conquerable. There are no ropes, no harnesses. No other human being anchoring you to the ground with the force of their weight. Nobody to catch you. In bouldering there is you and the wall: your feet and hands snugged into holds fashioned to keep you from falling.
I agreed to go despite a lifelong fear of heights and a recent distrust of my own body. See, there are times my body forgets to be my body. Times my hands disconnect from the circuitry and drop whatever they’re holding. Times my feet tangle themselves into the subtle nuances of thin air. I have frequently felt helpless against gravity. But the truth is I was tired of the cold and the dark; winter so long you forget there is anything but winter. Tired of the routine and the safety. The artificial warmth of bedrooms created by breath and blankets. So I said yes.
The Circuit is an indoor climbing gym full of lights and noise and bodies. The climbing walls are coded with numbers, letters and colors according to difficulty. We entered that foreign space with our rented shoes and borrowed chalk, not knowing what to expect. Intimidated by the novelty we sequestered ourselves to a corner of the wall. My lover (at the time) jumped into the fray while I read and reread the rules. Never stand, walk or climb underneath another climber. No running, skipping or jogging. No food or drinks on the carpet. No Climbing under the influence of drugs or alcohol. Committing them to memory like they held the secret to success. Like they could equip me for the task at hand.
Following the beginner pattern she easily scaled the first wall, an up/down circuit that brought her quickly back to where I sat cross-legged on the ground below. I think you’re up. I stood, walked closer to the wall studying the pattern, breaking the code. The bodypuzzle unfolding in my mind.
My hands surprised me with their steady, arms bearing the body’s weight with unanticipated grace. My borrowed shoes gripping the divots and juts just so. My body splayed across the wall and climbing. Slow and steady. Strong and sure. I reached the top of that first course, pounding an open palm across the flat space between wall and ceiling. Victory. But coming down is the hardest part. The body, better suited to rising than anything else, slowly stuttering its way back to the earth’s surface. Toetips stretching delicately, probing out each ledge. I made it back because you have to make it back, one way or another.
I hit the ground with a splitlip grin, ready for more. What’s next?
We slowly worked our way around the perimeter of the wall. Some courses were top-out, no coming down from those. Once you were up and over the ledge your feet carried you down the ramp like feet were intended to carry you. Others, up/down like the first, required the cautious consideration of navigating your path in reverse.
In climbing, there comes a point eventually where you are halfway up or down a wall and everything just stops. Your arms refuse to reach for that next handhold. Your legs won’t straighten or they won’t bend. You can’t move up or down. Fatigue creeps into every muscle and joint, fingers aching, heart pounding. The only option is to let go.
Lately my life feels like that first unconquerable wall. Everything tired, everything aching. Letting go means forfeiting all of the height I’ve gained. Means falling. Means trusting the ground to catch me. Means letting myself be caught. There are no ropes or harnesses, no person anchoring me with their weight. There is only me and empty space; those subtle nuances of air. When you can’t climb anymore, you let go. Acknowledge there are more walls, more days. And maybe you will be stronger next time. Or maybe you will just be less afraid of the falling. More accepting of gravity.
The first time I let go I fell hard from a high place. Landed heels to ass to back. Let my body sprawl across the padded ground. Let my body breathe and laugh, flexing hands and arms and legs. When I think about living I think about climbing. I think about falling. Think about standing back up, powdering my hands with fresh chalk.
Analyzing the bodypuzzle.
Scaling the next wall.
-b
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