Climbing Forever

Hey readers. Or reader. Or an empty, readerless void. I am stuck at home, because Corona-tine (doesn't have too great of a ring to it, maybe I'll just stick with Corona Quarantine), and it is raining to boot. Woot. I'm a poet and didn't know it. So I figured I would finally publish a blog that's been sitting in my drafts for many months. Enjoy. Or don't.

November, 2019

Four years ago, on November 19, 2015, I climbed for the first time. I instantly fell in love with it; I had discovered my life passion. My relationship with climbing grew and blossomed and quickly became something I couldn't imagine living without.

I was listening to Dax Shepherd's Podcast, Armchair Expert, today and he said that he feels sorriest for people who don't know what they love. This may sound extreme, but I felt pretty lost trying to discover my life passion, and to know what I love. I knew it was climbing the instant I ascended my first route at a climbing gym. At times, I think back and wish I'd discovered it earlier. Yet, perhaps everything in life happens at exact moments for just the right reasons. I am thankful for every route I have climbed or fallen from, and every boulder problem mastered or unsolved. I cherish every memory with every person (or guinea pig) with whom I have climbed. Sharing my life passion with others brings me immense joy, and I love to see people encounter the challenges and reap the benefits that come from this amazing activity.

I've participated in a number of activities like yoga and running to try and quiet my mind over the years. However, no matter how hard I try, I couldn't get my thoughts to settle down. Climbing changed all of that. It feels always intuitive, always natural, and always something I should be doing. People think I am insane for climbing the flatirons in Boulder without ropes. People ask me why I climb or if it scares me and the honest truth is it doesn't. I climb because I have to, I love to, and it is what I should be doing. When I am on the rock, my mental chatter goes quiet.

In honor of this momentous occasion, my four year anniversary with climbing, I decided to finally post a draft blog I wrote in August about soloing the second flatiron. Enjoy!

August, 2019

As of this morning, I have solo climbed the second flatiron 100 times.

I don't write about climbing as much as I should considering the role of unparalleled importance it plays in my life. When first introduced to the sport, it felt like I finally found my passion in life- something for which I'd been searching a long time. About six months after climbing and my relationship began, I free soloed the second flatiron with a friend. I don't recall feeling scared of climbing with no ropes; on the contrary, I felt free and peaceful.

Soon, I couldn't get enough of soloing the second flatiron. Anytime the weather was nice, I carved out time in my day to head to Chataqua to do so. Over the years, free soloing has forced me to overcome seemingly unsurmountable mental obstacles. For example, there is a jump on the second flatiron called the "leap of faith." At first (and understandably so), most people are intimidated by the idea of jumping from one rock to the next. It appears so much more terrifying than it is, and for my first 16 climbs up the second, I was too scared and found a way to avoid it. When I finally decided to face my fear, I realized how much easier it was to do the jump. Conquering that fear was a game changer for me.

I now solo with friends, first time climbers, and have climbed the first three flatirons with over ten guinea pigs. Those places are my sanctuary, and I am so glad to still have such a strong relationship with climbing.

Climbing with Bilbo

Climbing with Gandalf

Climbing with Legolas

Climbing with Mario

Climbing with Dave

Climbing with Neo

Ma-Ma-Ma-My Corona

I'm sitting here trying to recall the first day I ever heard mention of the Coronavirus, which was then known by a different name. It can't have been more than a month ago, I feel like, Yet, whenever it was, gyms were still open. People of all ages frequented grocery stores without donning masks on their faces. Pick up and delivery weren't the only dining out options (if you can even call it dining "out" anymore). Things felt as normal as they ever did, and yet today was the first time I felt the change in the tides.

I am fortunate enough to be able to work from home, so home is where I have been. This has been tough as I truly love going into the office and I miss my coworkers. But I've been muddling through. Each day starting around mid-March things began to get more difficult. One of my beloved climbing gyms closed. Then another announced its closure. Then another gym, and another. I started trying to work out at home, but it simply isn't the same. For me, the hardest part is probably the closure of my climbing gyms.

I have started to feel the isolation. Today I went to the grocery store after not having left the house in days and it just felt bizarre. I couldn't come up with the right word for the shift in the worldly winds until my friend called it "surreal." It was surreal. The constant PA announcements to abide by social distancing, the signs all over the store announcing different hours, almost every individual inside wearing a mask, and signs on the doors of restaurants announcing that only five people were allowed inside to pick up orders at once, or saying they were only doing drive through and delivery.

The world feels surreal. Talk show hosts are live from inside their homes instead of in front of studio audiences. On one of my favorite Podcasts, they did their first episode over Skype with their guest to stay safe. Yet in spite of the surrealism, the guest on that episode, Sanjay Gupta, said something hopeful. Surprisingly, considering that the Dr. Gupta has been working like 20 hour days and said he hasn't really slept for more than three hours in six weeks.

"This is nobody's fault. This is a pathogen that's circumnavigating the globe, it does not respect borders or boundaries it does not discriminate against young or old, men or women, cultures around the world are all at risk from this and we all have a certain obligation or duty to try and do our part to stop this. So I don't think there are many things that bring the world together like this, potentially...it really can do something that is intimately good for the world."

He then talked about how interesting it has been to observe peoples' behavior and how we are more extrinsically than intrinsically motivated to take care of ourselves. For example, how people who found out they weren't in a high risk carrier could still pass it on to others have started to take steps to stay healthy. He talked about how interesting it is evolutionarily that we are caring about others and it isn't "survival of the fittest," and that maybe humans have evolved in a way to realize we need to care for others and need to work together. He told this story of an ER doctor who has been sleeping in his garage because he doesn't want to expose his family and how heartbreaking it is to hear that he couldn't even hug his newborn baby.

Here's the whole podcast: https://armchairexpertpod.com/pods/sanjay-gupta-on-covid-19 

Letting Go of Perfectionism in Painting

In case you didn’t know, I paint. Or at least, I dabble in painting. My medium of choice is acrylic, basically because I’m too lazy to wait for oil paints to dry and oil painting requires too many steps for impatient people like me. It took me a bit to find my niche; that which I love to paint most. Actually it took like two weeks. So nevermind.

My niche is silhouettes, mainly silhouettes of mountains and climbers (because, in case you didn’t know, I love to climb). I was so jazzed when I painted my first silhouette of a climber soloing the second flatiron. I dipped a tiny brush in black paint and on my first try created a little climber. Not only is painting silhouettes gratifying for me, but it is relatively easy. When I allow it to be, that is. For the first few months after I discovered my love of painting, I cranked out work of art after work of art, creating mountain scenes full of happy climbers (woah, that was such a Bob Ross thing to say...). However, with time, I started becoming a harsher and harsher critic of my own work. I began nitpicking over every tiny brushstroke, berating myself for painting silhouettes that didn’t look perfect. The defeating self talk, bellowing comments like “hm, that climber’s head isn’t proportional to the rest of his body!” grew so loud that I became discouraged. I stopped loving my hobby to the point where I stopped entirely for awhile.

Two happy climbers, two happy ravens! Bob Ross would be proud!

This was one of my first 

This little climber was my first ever silhouette! I hope he’s not falling...

Then one day while wandering the many aisles of Michaels, I found a new tool. It was a paintbrush pen. I rejoiced at the discovery, and realized that with this pen, I could have such control that I would attain perfection in my silhouettes. For awhile, I would simply draw the tiny climbers (climbers had evolved at this point; I had begun painting silhouettes of animals, plants, people doing things other than climbing [gasp!!], etc) with my black paint marker. It wasn’t until this morning that this really bothered me. I realized that I didn’t want this level of perfection in my painting. It didn’t enable me to enjoy my art more. Instead, it gave a megaphone to the self-defeating voice that had criticized my work for so long before. Honestly, using the pen for my silhouettes felt like cheating. So I stopped using it. I felt free almost instantly, as I could embrace the little flaws created by my hand-painting. 

I’m not saying it’s my way or the highway (although with most things, it is!). I completely respect whatever method of painting other artists use, and if that is using a paint pen and it doesn’t make them crazy and dislike their hobby, then that’s great! It just wasn’t working for me, and I had to realize that and respect myself as a painter. I still have some odd little quirks when it comes to painting. When I paint climbers, I always want them to have friends. Same with animals when I paint multiples in a scene. I want them to be happy little silhouettes (Bob Ross again!!). I’m not sure if that was always the case, but it is now. 

I won’t sign anything I paint until I’m truly content in how it turned out. That means happy with all the little flaws I create.

The painting that made me realize I had to return to my paintbrush ways!

Almost 30

In three days, the clock will strike a certain time, and I will turn a dreaded age: almost 30. This year, I’ll have to nix my tradition of wallowing in sorrow by myself, as I’ll be at work. Actually, I’ll just turn my wallowing inwards and cry metaphorical tears.

Men are lucky because they age gracefully and often get sexier the older they get. Two words: John Stamos. I however, am at this awkward age where I have wrinkles AND zits! Perfect example of how unfair life can be. So think of me on March 11th as I wallow internally and externally, when I’ll cry tears that will probably worsen my acne, and scrunch my face in sadnes which will deepen my wrinkles.

But you know what would make me feel better, dear reader?? A contribution to my GoFundMe where I’m trying to raise money for a new guitar. Anyone who donates can request any song and I will sing and record it for you. Check out my SoundCloud to hear my previous recordings if you need more motivation to donate. I mean come on, it’s my birthday after all.

Fili

I realized in yoga today that I am still extremely haunted by a traumatizing event from my past. My first guinea pig and best friend Fili died suddenly and tragically almost two years ago now, and since nothing has helped me move on and ascertain any sense of closure, I have decided to try writing about it to share it with a wider audience. I don’t generally blog about such sensitive topics, but I’m ready to give it a try. So thank you for joining me as I share this story. 

I got Fili almost four years ago from the Boulder Valley Humane Society. It was love at first sight; he was an adorable guinea pig with a loving demeanor and personality. I actually wrote a blog (http://bonvoyage4.blogspot.com/2015/08/pigs-are-people-too-part-two.html?m=1) 

about our meeting, and how incredible of a creature he was. Soon after adopting Fili, I learned about the importance of having more than one guinea pig so they don’t get lonely. I found him a friend at the pet store; a female guinea pig whom I named Khaleesi. She had three babies a few months after they met (this is starting to sound like a Match.com story) and I decided to keep one of them. I named him Bilbo, and he became Fili’s new cage mate and companion. I found a family to adopt the other two guinea pigs along with Khaleesi. 

Bilbo and Fili got along great, and although Bilbo is extremely adorable his personality did not come close to the caliber of Fili’s. I took Fili with me on adventures; he was the first guinea pig I ever took climbing, and I have brought at least six since. He was my precious bub, my emotional support friend, and my right-hand dude. He was my first serious pet, and I didn’t mind peoples’ judgements about the oddity of a woman in her mid twenties owning a guinea pig instead of a “real” pet like a cat or dog. 

One spring day almost exactly two years ago, I decided to put Bilbo and Fili outside in their little playpen. I often did so on nice days so they could munch on grass and enjoy being outdoors. Putting them outside had never been a problem until that dreadful day. I placed them in the pen and went inside momentarily. In the fleeting moments I was not observing them, a neighborhood dog approached the playpen and sniffed it curiously. As he nudged the cage with his nose, it collapsed and fell. Bilbo fled quickly enough to escape, but Fili was not so lucky. He was pinned by the fence, and although I ran out and freed him rapidly, it was too late. The dog did not act in aggression, simply in curiosity, and he ran off in fear when the cage collapsed. Fili had no external damage that I could see, but he quickly exhibited strange behavior issues like having issues with walking. He was no longer acting like himself. Because he was always my treasured baby, I immediately put Bilbo back inside and rushed Fili to the vet. I knew I would do anything to save him, but as I drove him to the vet it became more and more clear that saving him wouldn’t be an option. Tears streamed down my face from the moment I saw him pinned beneath the cage in which I had out him, but they became more of a deluge as he stopped moving altogether. I am not entirely sure if he passed away on my lap In the car, or after I arrived at the vet. Either way, it was one of the most devastating moments of my entire life. Even writing about it evokes unbelievable sadness. 

The vet looked at Fili and declared him dead. I sat and cried and cried, cradling my sweet departed pet in my lap, and hating myself for putting Fili and Bilbo outside that day. I felt disassociated from the whole experience. Did that really happen? How could my best friend be dead? I don’t think I will ever forgive myself for that putting him outside that day. The vet, her technician and really the entire staff at the VCA animal hospital were amazing. They cried with me, and told me I could get Fili’s paw prints in cement with his name and that I could get him cremated. One of the vet techs even told me about a website that turns pet ashes into jewelry and other works of art. I did so with Fili’s ashes; he is now a beautiful pendant that I have with me almost all the time. The rest of his ashes I spread in the mountains where we climbed and hiked and adventures together. 

I miss Fili constantly. His departure left a void in my heart that will never be filled again. I have had many guinea pigs since Fili and none have ever been at the same level of significance. I feel like that is the case for any pet owner. There is always that one pet that instantly steals your heart and never gives it back. I hope that he is somewhere better, running amock with other guinea pigs and eating crunchy veggies all day. I just don’t know how to move on in a way where I can be okay with what I did. Had I not put him outside on that day, he would still be with me. 

Thursday

Thursday, November 29th, 2018. Perhaps it ended up being a normal, or even fantastic day for anyone else. I am happy for all of my readers who had a pleasant Thursday, November 29th, 2018. That was not the case for me. As I awoke in the wee hours of that fateful day (well, I guess I was unaware of it being a fateful day yet) I knew something wasn’t quite right with me mentally. As I navigated through the day, I felt increasingly disassociated with myself and my surroundings. A series of events occurred towards the end of the day that are strikingly clear in my memory. I ate dinner at Noodles and then went to Goodwill where a seizure caused me to collapse, hit my head with enough force to cause my first serious head injury; a concussion, skull fracture, and subarachnoid hemorrhage (a type of brain bleed, and possibly a type of stroke, that was never made clear to me). You can look at the packet trying to explain what was going on in my head, although the packet was, ironically, headache-inducing.

The next thing I remember deciding to buy painting of a raven eating a raspberry and talking on the phone with my friend. Then, BOOM! What felt like two seconds later I awoke in terror in an ambulance, greeted by a red-headed stranger with strikingly blue eyes asking me, in an order I don’t recall, the name of the president and what month we were in. Prior to that moment, I had never felt such paralyzing fear, caused by not recognizing my surroundings and uncertainty of the answers. 

Don't worry, I got the answers right. Trump. (Thanks for the further aggravation, red-head paramedic dude! Trump was not the first thing I wanted to think of upon waking) The other question seemed like  two answers, December OR November should let that patient pass the "do I have a clue what the F is going on!?!?" quiz. We were basically on the cusp. But it was November, which I knew, so I "passed." (On that note, I am not exactly sure what failing would be...it's not like they would kick you out of the ambulance for getting a bunch of questions wrong. Plus maybe it is POSSIBLE that some people just don't know the answers. Some food for thought there...)

A CT scan in the ER revealed the bleeding in my brain and got me admitted to the ICU for the next day or so. The medications injected into my IV in the emergency room started and continued with Ativan, a strongly addictive Benzodiazepine, as well as Fentanyl and Dilaudid and handed to me in dosing cups caused my mind to swirl in a dense fog of questions, every emotion imaginable, and a multitude of healthcare personnel buzzing around me. 

When I was discharged, I left the hospital with folders containing information about concussions and brain injuries as a whole. More on that later.

My Offensive Split Ends

I generally avoid hair salons. I use "hair salon" as an all-encompassing term here; we're talking anything from Barbra's Back Alley Bowl Cuts to Le Salon Chic Chic and everything in between. Yes, I made up both of those names (or did I?). Maybe the whole concept of never paying someone to chop off my hair was so deeply ingrained from my childhood years, when haircuts consisted of my mom and some scissors in the bathroom. She gave me short bangs before they were trendy, or a thing people did intentionally. It turns out my mom wasn't aware that I could NOT pull off the edgy style, and no one pointed it out to her or me (at least, not to my face). Beholding a reflection of yourself with bangs and feeling dread wash over you as you realize the time it will take before those grow out is something I am all too familiar with.

In my younger years, bang trims were a routine occurrence. "Marisa, you need your bangs trimmed!" my mom would insist, to which I always wanted to point out that they were already halfway up my forehead and in danger of disappearing altogether. I often looked like a toddler version of one of the Beatles, albeit with much shorter bangs. But this blog is not about my childhood style choices (or lack thereof). It's about something that seems to frighten people even more: my split ends. Oh, the horror!

Before reading on, please know that I am not a hair stylist-ist (prejudiced against hair stylists, obviously). I'm sure the following paragraphs will offend some readers, because everything is offensive to someone, and writing my thoughts online will surely anger at least a few people. I have definitely had some lovely hair stylists.

If you have the money or are a dude who isn't bald and can't pull off a man bun, I say go ahead and spend money on those monthly or weekly (or daily??) haircuts. As a female who can't pull off a pixie cut, I don't see the point. I also can't recall many times when I've gone to a salon and not gotten a lecture. Sometimes, these lectures last the entire time, which I never understood. Did those hairstylists want me to come back? For anyone who has never been lectured by a hairdresser, they normally go something like this:

Hairdresser: What can I do for you today?
Me: Oh, just a trim please. (Or: "is there any way you can fix what I did to my hair when I decided it would be a swell idea to chop it off myself?" But that is a blog topic for another day...)
H: Well, you have a LOT of split ends. I mean, more than I have EVER seen. Your split ends have split ends. You really need to buy (insert name of hair care product that costs more than I pay for rent here) and come in at LEAST every six weeks.
Me: I like my hair long though (and I don't love paying to offend someone with my split ends).
H: Your hair grows faster when it gets frequent trims.

I just love that last line. I mean...no, hair doesn't grow faster when it gets frequent trims, because...science. At this point, before he/she has even taken scissors to my mane, it is clear to me that the hairdresser thinks my split ends are an absolute marvel of science and that I should be studied. Usually the whole haircut experience ends with the hairdresser saying something like "I did the best I could..."  or "your hair would have looked healthier if you would have let me cut off another couple of inches" while adopting an expression you'd expect to see on a doctor giving you bad news after an unsuccessful medical procedure. After that, I leave and don't return for at least a year (barring any unfortunate home haircuts gone wrong) when I get to relive the whole lovely experience again.

Generally, I preface my visits with a brief disclaimer that I am well aware that I have split ends worthy of a research study, but that I don't want to hear about it or about the magical $600-product that my distressed hair needs.