Gray

 Gray for the color of the clouds

That caressed Cornell Peak

Gray for the color of the tales 

We tell of each geographic location

A pin drop for past adventures

That transpired when we 

Caressed each other like the 

Gray clouds about Cornell Peak 

We need to go back to find 

The spark that once was but

Has gone gray with too much time

And not enough adventures

Jesse has given me a final curse; the fear of losing those I love.

I have always prided myself in not being afraid of anything, not even death. But now I openly admit that I am terrified of death--as something that can steal any of my beloved.

So when I climb up into the sky with Jacob, all I can think of is him falling, hitting the ground... and me, left behind, irrevocably damaged.

My worst fear is being left alone, behind, in a void of my loved ones.

Jesse gave me fear. How am I to combat this? Just this week two people from an earlier stage of my life died. Death will always be in front of us: mocking, beckoning.

I used to think I could fight anything. Draw my sword, roar, charge, and take it down. Now I find as I have grown older I have come to the realization that you cannot fight death. And it makes me feel weak. And exposed. And unprotected. Just the way I can feel up on a wall.

There is something about defying gravity and logic that made climbing so much fun for me. Here I am, high above the ground, where a human should not be. We were not meant to climb like a lizard, like a bug. We have two feet meant to walk on flat ground. Yet, here I am! Using man-made tools that prevent me from what should happen--a fall. This used to be hilarious, thrilling, and fulfilling.

 There is a problem now; I realize that there will now always be an inevitable fall. So in all my smiles, laughter, and certainty, there is a hint of solemnity.

Yes, this is all fun and games now, but we will all eventually die. Life is full of heartache, trials, and pain, and then we will have those we love taken away from us, one by one. Just as we, I, me, will eventually be pulled away from those who love me.

 Life is a shoving of people together, just long enough for them to form a bond, a stitching of flesh to flesh, spirit to spirit: then it is a tearing, a ripping of those bonds as Life veers to Death.

Give and take. Breathe in, breathe out.

 I am not a child anymore.

Furthering Finality

You're missing out
on possibilities
on shooting stars
falling into the oceans
of all of our tears.
Weakness or strength?
Which gave you the right
to take and break that
which wasn't yours?

I rage
because of you
your actions
they way you shunned
ignored
refused
all of our love.
Not just mine.
They way you threw
it all away on a limb
--on a whim.

You're not here
so you can't listen
to my yelling at you
at all of us screaming
at you.
Wish you could have
heard this
before you chose
to leave.
I bet we could have
convinced you
to stay.

Jesse

Falling. Reeling.
The loss
yawning void that you left for us
for us to lurch into gets
deep
er.roar in your bottle-corked feelings
that you refused to share
that caused us to yell
screaming
NO! NO! NO!
It’s not true!
It’s not real!
But unreality was your specialty.
Cruel in the way you chose
to leave this world
leave yourself in front of the morgue
we used to jest about our silent neighbors.
Now you are one of them.
Them:
The kind that do not return.
You are there with your mother. With Matt Hopper.
But you’re also here. You stand in my dreams
with your hands in your pockets
with your feet in your Berkinstocks
with a sad smirk on your face
that resembles an apology.
But your dream-sorries are ripped from me
as my alarm goes off --wake
--and I remember that you are still gone.
Your curiosity, perhaps?
Your last FU, world!
Your last run-in with unrequited love?
You, the black bird.
Do you know what you have done?
Was this a social experiment gone wrong?
Remember when you used to go to class in a suit
just to see what people would say to you?
Treat you differently? Reactions.
Take notes.
We loved you.
We all did.
You’ve left a Jesse-shaped hole in our hearts.

I watch the sun rise above clouds of blood red gold liquid...
I find no reason in my heart for leaving this beautiful world.
I feel the air in my lungs, feel the warmth of the sun as it graces my skin,
hear the birds begin their morning songs, praising the day.
But this isn't about me. Not anymore.
Why would you leave all this? All of us?

I see your pictures. I read your words.
I will you to come alive.
To undo what you have done.
But you have chosen to go.
I do not speak for just myself,
but for everyone who loved you (still loves you):
we will never let you go.

dreamer

I want to scream.

Yell.

Curse.

For getting my hopes up yet again.

Needless to say, I did not get the job at Camp Cuyamaca.

I was meant to impart a love for nature to young folk

And to enable them to find Nature to be a mirror in which they can see the best of themselves.

I am an educator: whether it is teaching the joy of literature or a deep appreciation of the outdoors, I should be teaching someone, somewhere, these things.

When will I be able to do what I was meant to do?

Until I find a place that will take me in and see my worth as a teacher, I am moving to Joshua Tree. Starting this Monday I will be full-time at the Nomad Ventures there.

My optimism still works: I will be moving in with Jacob! Climbing! Joshua Tree!!

....but no Camp Cuyamaca.

Jacob

I love that you can ride waves to shore

The white roaring mass moving you

To whoop and holler and that dashing smile

Your hair stuck up on one side

You jog slow-motion through the breakers

To me, waist-deep in the strong current

You high-five me and eyes shine bright

Like a child. If I have faith in anything

It is in the joy that we share here together.

Morning in August

I finally drifted off to sleep last night, heavy with the need for rest. This did not last long. I woke to trilling, screeching, purring raccoon kits playing: little balls of fur tackling and rolling about just outside my window. A smile found my sleepy face. How could I be mad at such cute critters? But after a few minutes I knocked on my window and kindly asked, "Hey, guys? Could you keep it down?" They scampered further off, creating a muted ruckus further down the yard.

Next I know Mom is prefacing the question of whether or not I'd like some coffee with, "I know this is a dumb question, but..."

Roll from bed. Coffee. Sugar. Too much sugar. Add more coffee. 7am? Enough time to sit back and read Climbing magazine. Find a bit of motivation. Sip on bean juice. Wait--is it trash day? I've been waiting to clean out the fridge for two weeks. Pause... clean... gross... okay, done.

As I read a randomly pulled back issue I think about how little I have climbed. I do consider myself a climber, though not a very good one. My grip strength is improving; I am getting myself out on some easy leads (both trad and sport); I've been reading John Long's Anchor books; talking rock with Jacob; and finally been dreaming about more vertical granite than I can shake a stick at. I'm a climber at heart and am slowly following in action.

My Honda Civic died. The clutch gave out and I sold it all in one day. My savings plus the few measly bucks I milked from the car sale is not enough for a down payment on a new or even a certified used car. So I rock the Momobile CRV (thanks, Mom!). Wait. Save. Search. Buy?

I've had my teaching credential for just over one year now. I have just four years left to find a job in the classroom. I still want to teach. One day, I will.

dwell

It is late.

I am always doing this;

waking with the sun,

staying up with the moon.

The water rushing outside

my window is not the

Tuolumne River.

I pull out my sleeping bag

and pretend

that I am Out still

beneath the approving stars.

Father's Daughter

Father's Day always reminds me how lucky I am to have Dad as my dad. For instance, if Dad weren't my dad, would I be excited to rummage through the owl pellets beneath the owl box up on the hill? A mouse skull here, a gopher skull there, rodent bones, hair, and, look! a feather! A Barl Owl feather, to be precise.

The wild things sustain me. I have found, though, that I have a need to share these wild things with the ones I love.

I follow a road that becomes a trail that becomes a game trail that leads to a sudden drop-off into a canyon. I smell the sage, nibble on buckwheat, and stare back at a sharp-shinned hawk. But there is one man in particular I wish were besides me. He could also identify the plants, the birds, the animals. He is 115 miles away, on his own hike in a canyon behind his house in Joshua Tree.

I smell Pearly Everlasting and look down at my feet. A few pieces lay on the ground and I gather them up, make a bouquet. Next to my toes I find a sun-bleached snail shell with a hole through the center. I cinch the stems of the Pearly Everlasting with the shell and continue walking. What appears to be string is actually coyote melon vines, partially dried in the sun. Round and wound it goes, to finish off my bouquet, which I give to Dad for Father's Day.

I no longer feel the pressure to be someone I am not. I am not ashamed to dissect owl pellets, find scat as informative as a newspaper (and less depressing), and deem a bouquet of dried up wildflowers more intoxicating than any rose. Daddo, thank you for teaching me to be who you taught me to be, confidently, and without need for compromise.

Happy Father's Day, Daddo.

sleepyhead

There is no real reason for me to be awake right now. I guess I enjoy the silence that this time of night brings; I can only hear the hum of my laptop and the crinkle of leaves under the paws of raccoons just outside my window.

The reality that I won't be working at Julian Jr. High has settled. I'm moving on. I've applied to other jobs, but without all the gung-ho I had for JJH. I must continue to look forward. Until then, I will keep working at Nomad Ventures. Too many of my friends do not have jobs. I know I am fortunate to have one.

Also, just so you know, sometimes I laugh because I have a blog. Fifteen years ago that word didn't exist. Blog.

As for the photograph: I took that (while driving) on my way up to Idyllwild via the 243, just after passing under the 10. I think my camera has an infatuation with train tracks. They're so full of symbology (only a real word if you've seen The Boondock Saints).

It's nearly 1am. I'd best get my sleepface on.

waiting

My friends tell me that I should stay busy while I wait to hear the news. Instead I eat left-over Thai food in bed while reading webcomics.

Clare and I discuss ideas that some people have died for. The thought of a perfect world, where one didn’t have to chose between food or gasoline. Eating from your garden. Picking sweet peas and bell peppers and putting them in your salad. Laughing with your best friends. Not having to compete with them for a job that will underpay and overwork you. Revolution is the thing that everyone wants but is so monumental that no one will die for it anymore. All the revolutionaries are dead.

Our three-car garage is filled with artifacts that would either show our love or our contempt for each other. Which artifact would you throw into the dumpster?

I heard that the self-storage industry is doing remarkably well.

Why is it that we cannot enjoy the moment? We either cling desperately to our past or we hurl ourselves into the future.

Why don’t we know ourselves? We fear who we might be, so we refuse to give up who we were or strive to be what we might become.

I found a lump. I thought I was too young, but there it is--quite visible. It is in the shape of contempt. Anger. Indignation. I thought I could easily forgive, but here I am struggling to not yell while throwing red bricks at the blue sky. Four years and you deny it meant anything. A waste of time? I am still reeling from that--from your wall, from your words, from your ability to sweep away what I thought you might have understood, but had hidden. I am currently unable to cope with the way I feel about the way part of me died when I left you. How has anyone coped with such burning anger and unanswered questions? How has anyone found a way to wade through such hurt?

I told Clare that I suppose this is how a tree feels when it has been pared. It must feel very unnatural at first, what with sap running over its bark and all. But I have started to grow. My old heartwood was exposed and now new shoots are beginning to bud. It is Spring, isn’t it?

Some may wonder if my loving him so soon is such a good idea. But, you see, I’m going to offer you a few reasons why it is.

I love who he is. Rough around the edges. Intelligent. Possessing a native intelligence that rivals my own (while I am in my neck of the woods). Strong and confident. Thoughtful and intuitive.

He knows I am still wounded. Yet, he allows me to love. This love is not a salve, it is not a band-aid, it is not a fix-a-flat (though I did once flatline). This love is hope.

I have to hope that I am able to fully love again. And I have to hope that there is someone in this world would can take my love for what I want it to be: a gift, a gem, a wooden heart-shaped puzzle box that I want him to unlock.

Good thing he loves puzzles.

San Jacinto

Flecks of light drift through the air between the towering pines. Each branch, every needle is encased in pristine white; My feet stop moving and my heart expands in my chest. I break the silence with laughter because the joy inside me demands manifestation; I am overwhelmed.

Jacob and I are going for the summit of San Jacinto, 10,834ft: the highest peak in Southern California. Our feet are clad in insulated boots and crampons--there is roughly two and a half feet of packed snow, and one foot of fresh powder on top. Jake leads the way (having hiked this trail numerous times) and we follow the boot prints of only a few other crazy hikers. We pass through meadows and up hills, through forests of ponderosa pines that smell so sweet I feel intoxicated. The sights, smells, and sounds are so invigorating that I don’t notice how sore my legs and back feel. Nothing precedes the wonder and awe in which I am joyously drowning.

Jake tells me that John Muir hiked this mountain and had said that, “The view from here is the most sublime in the world.” In the world! If John Muir said it, it must be true, right?

When you are in the mountains you forget about the menial and unnecessary stresses in your life. You are able to focus on the here, the now, the present: this moment, and this moment only. As Jake said, you reach a kind of Zen, a focus and meditation, that would take a Buddhist his entire life to reach. Each step taken is made with purpose and precision. Point being, if you need to find yourself, challenge yourself, or simply re-focus your life, go to the mountains.

This whole snow and ice thing is new to me. Jake had to show me which way to strap on my crampons, which way to hold his ice tool, and a few time-tested ways to walk on steep, icy snow. I worried that I wouldn't enjoy the below-freezing temperatures or the ceaseless incline--but I loved it! I was never hot while hiking, but I wasn't cold, either.

And being surrounded by clean, bright snow gave me a sense of hyper-innocence. Jake and I were both all smiles, all laughter, and filled to the brim; this is what Joni Mitchell must have meant when she said, "I'm going to camp out on the land, I'm going to try and get my soul free."

I could spend any given time outside with a friend, but this... this brings my expectations to a whole new level.

"People travel to wonder at the height of mountains, at the huge waves of the sea, at the long courses of rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motion of the stars; and they pass by themselves without wondering."

-- St. Augustine

restoration

Having my back thrown out at only 24 years of age is disheartening. The pain, however, gave me a fresh appreciation for my working body. While I waited for my back to heal, I was able to focus on other things on my visit to Joshua Tree. I was unable to climb, but I could cheer on my friends who were able. As they climbed, I took some time to revel in the beauty in which this place is soaked; red adobe buildings crumbling in the sunset, cactus wrens making a lovely racket, and warm, smokey breeze kept me captivated.

Each time I return I feel more connected, more invited, and more at home in Joshua Tree.

I wonder if I will ever have just one place I call "home"?

allowing It to be

"Don't bend; don't water it down; don't try to make it logical; don't edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly."

-Franz Kafka

It changes

It rises and falls and shows

Itself as a fog shows the oak trees

It may be unexpected

It may render you down to a feeling of hopelessness

It will always be there to remind you that

It cannot be controlled

It will not be tamed and

It is exactly what you need

It is and

It will continue to be, just as

It has always been

(Courtney Style) Today I...

Today I...

Woke up in Ramona at 6:14am

Drove up to Julian and stopped in at the Julian Coffee House (Lou's)

Quad mocha and a breakfast croissant with sausage

Smile on my face and in my heart as I see my mountains again

4, 5, 6 does and 3 fawns cross the road in front of me

Try to convince Jake via text to come down and climb Stonewall with me

Staff meeting: the Monday grumpies

Staff meeting: I am the peanut gallery

Lisa got a haircut!

New kids, new energy

10 minutes to take my shoes off, lay down on my bed, and relax

Burritos!

3 minutes to crawl up onto a rock and watch the thin clouds drift past

Cabin time with the boys: never giving boys free time again. Structured activities only

Boys + burritos = massive flatulence during cabin time

Camp fire! My voice came back (nearly) enough to sing Boom Chicka Boom

Kids leave. Teachers stay. Enjoying the fire under the ring around the moon.

It's 9:30pm and I am going to bed.

relaxation, blood, and a Harley

Blurred.

The landscape is a blur of browns, tans, and stubborn green.

I'm smiling irrepressibly while on the back of Jake's Harley Davidson. An orange, black and chrome piece of fury roars beneath us. So this is the freedom of the road, freedom to be force-fed air, freedom to be thrilled.

My arms are in a knot around Jake; I duck my head down behind his shoulders to breathe on my own terms. I laugh: he accelerates.

Red tailed hawks in their winter color phase reel above us in a sky fit for dreams.

We climb in the shade of a boulder that could hide a house. A massive crack runs through the center, splitting the rock, and its very existence challenges us to climb it. We hang upside down from our [taped] wrists, our [bare] fingers, our ankles, our toes. He moves with precision and power. I falter and chuckle as the rock rejects my efforts. He reaches for his water bottle and drinks. Two deep red smudges of blood remain on the sides of the bottle and dry there. We comment on the happy insanity of masochistic climbers. The athletic tape on my hands smells of sweat and chalk.

Cactus wrens call out in the yucca-studded distance.

"I live not in myself, but become portion of that around me; and to me high mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture."

-Lord Byron

I like the juxtaposition of riding a Harley and then climbing boulders in the middle of the desert. Both exude freedom and something uninhibited, yet one is natural and the other mechanical. Each is an expression of the human spirit. The spirit of ambition. Born to be unrestrained. Born to remain untamed. The bike; the climb. The biker; the climber.

I love that Jake exposed me to something new, something I did not expect. I will always crave the wilderness, but from now on I can say that riding on the back of a Harley is a different kind of release--a new way to feel wild.

wealth

A friend of mine at Camp Cuyamaca, Andrew, and I had a few minutes to sit back and talk today. As we munched on Girl Scout Cookies (Samoas and Thin Mints: the only GS cookies that matter) we spoke of our future plans. He might have enough saved up to simply live as a bum near the ocean. A fantastic choice! Especially in San Diego. I told him my only plan was to hike about 50 miles of the John Muir Trail with two of my best friends, Camille and Tyler, this upcoming summer.

He surfs. I back pack. And our conversation wove in and out between things that make us happy and why. I've been studying the things that make me smile recently. People always tell me how happy I look, and I know I am more than happy; I am joyful.

I finally said something to Andrew that solidifies what I have been observing in my life:

"Well, I live to experience life, but there is more to it than that. There is a time and a place to be alone and to see things on your own, but the most important thing to me is experiencing life with others. That is how I define being 'rich': the more experiences you share with a person, the more memories you have with someone, the wealthier you are. I like to get rich every day."

I went on to rant as I always do about media-fed materialism and how it eats away at the values that this current generation has... but the heart of the conversation was this: I am rich. I am wealthy in my own definition. I am filled with a joy that comes from the interactions I have with these amazing people around me.

The road I walk is only as bright as I allow it to be. It would be completely dark if I shut my eyes. Or it could glow and shimmer with the radiance of those who give my life meaning.

I walk a road lined with memories and experiences worth more than gold, and it shines even truer...

Courtney

She'll be gone this time tomorrow.

The day I've dreaded, tried to forget and ignore.

It's here now, knocking.

And it's raining as if to emphasize

how we'll all be crying tomorrow at the airport.

Embracing.

She's been more than my sister;

She's been my mentor, my laughing friend.

Two years

is a long while to wait

to see my sister, Courtney, again.

Godspeed.

reading the rain

My eyes close in pleasure as I bite into a salmon lox bagel outside of Signature Bagel in Escondido. Swallow, sip of coffee, sigh. My eyes wanter to the line of cars parked at the curb. I note the cars that come and go. Which drivers match their vehicles. Which restaurant they will choose. Which item they will order. So many wear suits and dress shoes. Cell phones and keys in soft hands. Manicured finger nails. Combed, pinned back, washed hair. Busy. Financially well-off.

I wonder about what makes them tick.

Two well-dressed men step out of their Mercedes into the cloudy weather. They carry yellow pads of paper and an air of arrogance. I want to walk up to the older one and ask him, to his red face, “What gives your life meaning?”

A frightening variety of scenarios could follow. But I decide that I did not feel like making a grown man cry today. Or make a man question his current position in life. Or man a human wonder about why he is here. Here.

I re-open my book. The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. It has become my obsession. I read this book like I would eat a feast after fasting for an age. My mind is hungry. My spirit is being fed.

I read under an umbrella intended to block sun, not rain. And as the rain hits my back, I am thankful for my Mammut rain jacket. The pages curl due to moisture in the air, but is not hit directly by the drops. I read on.

How is it that we, as humans, allow ourselves to wander from who we truly are, originally? I see the personality of 6th graders at Camp, and they are full of wonder, full of questions, full of imagination. Well--most of them. I have seen the deterioration of wonder in some students. It is sad; it is like watching a flower plucking it’s own petals and tossing them to the ground. Children need to imagine and to be free to think of their dreams as a possibility.

When do we lose this ability?

I assume that it is different for each person. I assume that there are events that cause us to try to become more “adult” and less of a child. But, why must we lose wonder? And why must we start to give up our individual identities before we have even let them form completely?

Why do we struggle so vigorously with self-respect?

Too many people simply cannot look themselves in the eyes and feel proud of who they are. Or they don’t know who they are, so they are afraid to look deeper to find out; they are afraid they will not love who they are, so they don’t even bother. Why do we do this to ourselves?

I am more than happy with who I am: as a human, as a friend, as a woman. I am content. I am secure. I am proud. And it has taken me years to reach this standing. I’ve fought to come here, to come this far. Yet, I am only twenty-four years old. There are people, as I have said before, more than twice my age who do not know how it is to look and love yourself for who you are. I don’t feel guilty; I feel honored, privileged.

The Human Condition. We must fight self-hate, self-loathing each day. We must realize our potential and then jump for it. Go for it. Run for it. Become it.

It is raining steadily outside my house in Ramona. I drink homemade Thai tea and listen to water falling around the walls and windows. Each drop of water has a single dust particle to which the water molecules have desperately attached themselves. As the drops fall, I can’t help but think about how We typically view rain as pure, cleansing, and renewing. Yet, each raindrop contains a fragment of dirt.

No one should see that particle as a fault. There would be no rain if there was no dust. Instead, we should allow ourselves to be whole, and to fall, and to be as we were intended to be: a life-giving rainstorm that knows what it is and fulfills its purpose without a series of painful, doubt-laden questions.

I say, be who you are and be joyful in it!

cherish

When we walk down granite covered hill sides we talk about the Earth.

When I look down at my boots, I notice a shard of pottery.

Clay, dust, water; shaped by skilled hands; fired and hardened.

But this was hundreds of years ago.

A place a fragment of history in the upturned palm of my student's hand.

This is how you can tell it is pottery and not just a rock, some bark from a tree.

She starts to see and pick out pieces from among dozens of rocks.

I smile.

This is how my father taught me to see the Earth: the things of Nature and then the things of Man.

There is a distinct difference. When trained, your eye will be able to find that thing that does and does not belong.

A kid from the other village came up to me today and said, "Hey! You're Kat! Your group said that you can see anything!" He puts a hand behind his back. "How many fingers am I holding up."

I looked him dead in the eye. "Three."

His jaw dropped and his eyes bugged. "Oh my gosh!"

Today I spotted six red tailed hawks, one barn owl who was fleeing an hawk, two ticks, three grasshoppers, one jack rabbit, and three vultures. One of my students said that I had amazing eyes. I grinned; I do have my father's eyes.