My Narrow Escape

::Blog Notice:: There's a Japanese saying, "Fall down seven times, get up eight." I have fallen down and I've decided to get back up. Given the state of my health, I've come to realize that publishing two essays a week is TOO MUCH for me at this time even though I have plenty of essay ideas. So I am switching to a once a week schedule beginning today. Starting next week, I plan to publish on every Thursday when I am able. 

This essay is about rock climbing and a few vocabulary words might be needed to understand the essay.  (All of the following definitions were lifted off of Wikipedia a few years back. See pictures of rock climbing equipment.)

Top-rope climbing "(or Top-roping) is a style in [rock] climbing in which a rope, used for the climber's safety, runs from a belayer at the foot of a route through one or more carabiners connected to an anchor system at the top of the route and back down to the climber, usually attaching to the climber by means of a harness." 
 


Lead climbing "involves a lead climber attaching themselves to a length of dynamic (stretchy) climbing rope and ascending a route whilst periodically attaching protection to the face of the route and "clipping in" to it. The lead climber must have another person acting as a belayer." 

Free climbing involves climbing without a rope and harness.

Belay/Belayer:  "The belayer has multiple roles: holding the rope in the event of a fall, and paying out or taking up rope as the climber moves." 

Rappeling “is the controlled descent down a rock face using a rope.” 

One summer morning before beginning a climb at Seneca Rocks in West Virginia, my climbing partner (my ex-Y) and I selected a lead climbing route (a mapped out route on the rock face) that we thought was well suited to our skill level. Meaning, it was a climbing route that we would feel comfortable doing without a top rope. (Ropes in top-rope climbing are often tied off--that is, secured--to a tree or around a rock; something that will be able to bear the climbers weight if they fall.) In top-rope climbing you can take many more chances on the rock to improve your skill level and increase your confidence because you can more easily afford to fall off the rock face when tied off from above. Whereas in lead climbing, the lead climber places nuts into cracks and it is those nuts strategically wedged into cracks in the rock that hopefully hold the climber, and his or her belayer, if the climber falls. I suppose climbers take just as many chances in lead climbing once they develop a certain amount of confidence in their equipment, their knowledge about the type of rock they are climbing, and their ability. But for this novice lead climber, I had a ways to go before developing that level of confidence. 

Of course my ex-Y and I chose to climb a rock face that juts 900 feet above the ground our first time out lead climbing. The actual "climb" up the rock face, after a rigorous hike up the steep Seneca Rocks outcropping, is only about 300 feet. That's right, prior to lead climbing Seneca Rocks, we had only done top-rope climbing together at places like Raven's Roost, which is located on the Blue Ridge Parkway and has cliffs that are 50 to 80 feet tall. You may recall from reading Knowing How to Fall and Knowing How to Fall - Part 2 that I have had this tendency to quickly escalate the difficulty level of anything I've just learned.

The point is, in retrospect, we had no business being up on that rock together lead climbing for my first time. Well, perhaps I should speak for myself because my ex-Y was a little more experienced than I was in that he had completed other climbs, including ice climbs in New Hampshire. While he was ice climbing, I was skiing and pretending that he wasn't risking his life on the ice. I had no business being up on that rock in a lead climb, as I had only been top-rope climbing a couple of times. Granted, I had been free climbing the sides of small waterfalls and the like for years and some of them would have probably been rated in the 5.0 to 5.5+ range for stretches, and while they were relatively small in comparison, a fall could have easily led to my death. (Please do not climb without climbing gear unless you are willing to accept the possible consequences. Note that there are many waterfall-related deaths because of yahoos like me who enjoyed scrambling up rocks.) 

They're Back

Charlottesville, August 1982.  The month two friends and I plotted and carried out a crime against the City of Charlottesville.  I suppose with the passage of time, it's safe to reveal this episode from my past.  Though if pressed, I will refuse to reveal my partners in crime unless they choose to identify themselves in the comment section below.  (Well, I refuse to reveal their last names, and I doubt given their positions they'll reveal themselves.)

Mountain Cows, Cow Pies & Asperger's

::Blog Warning:: This is a light-hearted essay. You might not think so at first, but it is. So keep reading. Trust me. 

I had such fun at my counselor's office today. My counselor had me in stitches. You read that right, and if you think that's odd, well, then, you don't know my counselor. He's a very funny guy. (For the record he's a brilliant neuro-psychologist, but counselor is easier to say and type.)

Don't Marry an Axe Murderer

The other day I was in a parking lot after picking up my mother's prescriptions and I was getting ready to buckle up and leave. As I clicked the buckle into place, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a young man and a young woman--probably in their early twenties--saying goodbye in between rows in the middle of the lot. They looked very much in puppy love. Like early stages "I like/love you, hope you really like/love me too" infatuation. Smitten. Of course, I was riveted. You would have been too; the whole exchange was very sweet.

After their goodbyes, they both turned to walk in opposite directions toward their cars. Almost immediately, the young woman stopped and turned back, gazing at the young man, seeming to will him to turn around and look back at her. No such luck; he sauntered on. As he reached his car, she turned and headed toward hers, appearing a wee bit deflated. At that moment, the young man stopped and turned and gazed at her, looking as if he hoped that she too would turn and connect for a long-distance, across the lot, goodbye. The young woman didn't look back; she simply got in her car.

Neither of them knew that the other had looked back, and both, with their unrequited wistful gazing, might have left wondering if the other was as equally besotted. A stranger got to see what the two of them were hoping and looking for in the other. It was bittersweet to witness this near-miss exchange. I left the lot hoping that the two of them would figure out sooner rather than later that they are deep in smit together.

My Dad Wore Glasses

My father was born during the dog days of summer and so what would be a better way to celebrate the season of his birth than to recount the three worst experiences of my life with my father, yes? No? o.O

Well, if you've been reading my essays, then you already know in passing (actually from reading What's in a Name?) that I thought of my father as unconditionally loving. However, his life was not without negative impact. (Show me a person whose life is not.) Yah, yah, we love to focus on the positive and deny our shadows. There's this fear that if we even look at the negative shadow within that we'll be consumed by it, that the devil himself will ride up and spirit us away. Blarney.

Besides, when we deny our shadows and those of our significant others, we lose tremendous opportunities for learning, healing, and personal growth. The very things that help us become the people we were meant to be and contribute to our ability to have positive impact. I mean, if you can't have compassion for your family members shortfalls, how are you going to have compassion for anyone else's, including your own?

Trust me, I have no idea where this essay is going, but I will tell you this: Like most people, my childhood was not perfect, and with that said, you will not read a recounting of the worst of it here nor will I eviscerate anyone from my past for anyone's reading enjoyment. So relax.

Mom Knows Best (Don't Get Her Irish Up)

:: Language Warning :: This blog contains some colorful language, which we all know is a euphemism for cuss words. Trust me, it's not my fault. The language is essential to the story. Blame my mother.

You'll better understand the language warning when I tell you that my mother grew up on the streets of Belfast, Northern Ireland. No? Then perhaps I ought to tell you that my relatives have an entirely different relationship with the English language, including the use of profanity, than most of us growing up in the U.S. are accustomed. In Britain, the culture at large has a far greater tolerance for swearing than in the U.S. (When I say the streets of Belfast, I meant that the front entryway of the homes that my mother grew up in often butted against the city sidewalk, which was and may still be common for row houses in the city centre.)

Ach, even within Norn Ireland, the Belfast vernacular is quite distinct. (If you'd like to hear not only the Belfast accent but common colloquialisms, take a wee listen to this actor's Belfast monologue: Anthony Murphy. Murphy could be any one of my male relatives.) The difference between the Irish accent that we Americans are most familiar and the Belfast accent is like the difference between listening to someone from upper New York state and Brooklyn.  Well, my mother had the vernacular and found her city's twang harsh enough that she grew up doing her best to speak with a country lilt. (Perhaps the Northern Irish accent, or Belfast accent in particular, can best be described as a blend of Glaswegian and Irish, given that many Scots settled in the North of Ireland. By Glaswegian, I actually mean influences from a variety of Scots accents... I just like to say the word Glaswegian.)

What's In a Name?

I suppose now is the time to confess that Claire is my legal name. Um, no that's not it. I suppose now is the time to confess that Claire was not my birth name. No, that's not it either. I suppose now is the time to confess that Claire was not the name on my birth certificate. I'd tell you that name but since I no longer use it, I no longer use it. To be sure, my mother still uses the name found on my birth certificate when she's talking to me. In all other circumstances, however, my mother uses "Claire" (yes, quotation marks implied).

It's interesting how people adjust to name changes. My brother squared himself with my name change by purchasing me two itsy bitsy tiny coffee mugs (each about the size of two erasers found on the end of a no. 2 pencil)--my old name embossed on one and Claire on the other--and wiring them together as a Christmas ornament. I hang that on my tree every year in memory of him and his effort to cope with life's changes and let me know he'd accept just about any fool thing I decided to do with my life.

Making Do

Four of the six years that we lived in Charlottesville while my ex-Y was in graduate school, we lived in a grand (for me) home that had been converted into 5 apartments. In our first year (our third in town), we rented a two-bedroom, upstairs apartment, and in years two through four, we rented the first-floor apartment directly beneath that. (See right half of the home via a link to the Charlottesville Then and Now blog.) We moved downstairs because the seemingly well to do owners sold out to a business that owned and operated apartments around Charlottesville.

The original owners were often absentee landlords who got very testy, long distance from some corner of the world in their travels, when we had to have people in to take care of necessary plumbing or heating repairs, a common occurrence because the home was in serious disrepair. Many of our friends were in similar circumstances: In graduate school and too poor to afford rent from reputable apartment management companies. And so we sometimes found ourselves renting from upper-crusty, cranky inattentive landlords who let their one or two investment properties fall into disrepair because they thought their only responsibility should be to collect rents, unaccustomed as they were to the inconveniences of real life. (Hey, I've been a landlord since then and had my share of tenants who abused my patience as well as my properties, and so I don't say that lightly.)

Going With the Flow

Dedication: for Michael and Sandra with love.

I had an essay for this title and as I was doing a little clean up, I accidentally highlighted the entire essay and the text was somehow deleted.  Within a split second, blogger.com in its infinite wisdom, saved the now empty post on it's own without my having a second's chance to hit undelete.  It's this neat little, save as you go, feature.  Only tonight, it wasn't so neat.  Just two days ago, I had deleted the original essay from my Facebook notes, figuring I no longer needed to keep it. It was a darn good essay.

Given that this is an essay about going with the flow, when faced with the choice to delete this title or write a new essay, I chose to write a new essay rather than keep the irony to myself.  Only not right at the moment.  I think I'll go have a glass of wine and get back to you.  Just kidding.  I'm tired--I was just moments away from breaking for the night--and so I will pick up with a new day and a new attitude and see if I can write you an even better one. (Read on.)