on fear.

me, freefalling
by my cousin Molly

My little brother, Jake, is afraid of heights.  Like, really afraid.  When Alex and I lived in Colorado, we climbed Gothic Mountain with him.  Three quarters of the way to the top Jake was nervously sweating, his face had gone white, and then he starting crawling on all fours because he couldn’t bear looking down.  In all my time living in the mountains, I had never seen anyone react like that to heights.

Last week, when my whole family was at my parents’ home for our annual summer vacation, Jake decided that he was going to voluntarily jump out of a plane at 14,000 feet.  He had been thinking about it all summer.  Now who was with him?  Alex was a yes.  So was my cousin Brendan.  My brother-in-law, Steve, was interested, but his kids were having a “need their daddy” kind of day.  They needed a fourth.  Three faces filled with a particular mixture of thrill and fear turned to look at me.  Honora?

I spent the next few hours thinking.  About myself, about fear.  About how I already know from my years in the backcountry that I am not an adrenaline junkie.  I thought and thought.  About how I’m about to turn thirty and feel like I’m in an emotional rut.  About how life doesn’t turn out how you think it will.  About how lately I’ve felt like I’ve stopped being the protagonist in the novel that is my own life.  About how typically writerish of me it was to think that jumping out of a plane could be a spiritual experience.  Who was I trying to be, anyway?

And then a funny thing happened.  Just as I was about to tell the guys no, sorry, I’m not coming with you, my mouth opened and it said yes. 

I would be lying if I said that jumping into terminal velocity wasn’t f*&king terrifying.  It’s nearly impossible to describe the sensation of going from 0 to 120 miles per hour in seconds.  There is so much less gravity at 14,000 feet, the air is cold and thin, and I barely could tell which was up and which was down.  All I knew was that I had just voluntarily launched myself out of a moving aircraft and now I felt like I was going to die.  I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t open my eyes, and my stomach felt like it had been left on the plane. 

And then I did what I always try to do when I’m scared or in pain: I remembered to try and breathe.  A big, juicy, freezing gulp of thin air.  I remembered the position I was supposed to put my legs and arms in, remembered that I was strapped to my nice Brazilian instructor, and I looked down.  There was my house!  There was my backyard and my Dad’s boat and our little beach.  There was my favorite running route.  There was the pond where I learned how to swim.  There was the lighthouse, there was Monomoy, there was the new ocean cut.  There was the airport, there was Alex below me landing to safety, there was my family, hands waving and cheering!  There was my Mom, nervous and frightened and happy to see her children doing such amazing things.  There was everyone and every thing that I loved.

Since that day I’ve had moments where I haven’t felt so hot.  I’ve closed my eyes and remembered that feeling of fear -- the air rushing by me, my arms spread wide, my body falling openly, freely, looking down at the world below and just how magnificent it all really is.

the beautiful game.

a warning:  this post may just may induce a mad rage of jealousy.  press play.

friends.  oh friends!  I am about to embark on one of the most exciting trips of my life, a trip that was four years in the making.  my husband and I are going to the world cup!  in south africa!  we've got tickets to four matches, including brazil versus the ivory coast, which some say could be one of the best matches in the tournament.  if that weren't awesome enough, I'm also spending 6 days en route to South Africa in Paris.  with my husband.

I told you, I did.  I warned you.  mad rage of jealousy.

(commercials for the world cup are famous for being incredibly creative and well made.  the one above is for nike, directed by Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu, the director of Amores Perros, 21 Grams, and Babel.)

photo by Stephen Shore

Oh, man, I would really love to see the exhibit, “Into the Sunset: Photography’s Image of the American West,” at the MOMA in New York. My college thesis was a western screenplay about Billy the Kid and the mythic life and death of the Wild West. It is a topic that absolutely fascinates me. And what's especially interesting is that there is still a mythology of freedom and reinvention that you can feel here even today. If you are in New York and have seen the show, let me know!

how about them apples.

I'm writing from Gettysburg, Pennslyvannia, the home of A's maternal Grandmother. A's family owns a large apple farm and fruit packing business, and today we were lucky enough to go for a hike through the beautiful wintry woods. The East Coast is SO different. I haven't really been here (besides our wedding in June) for a year and a half--the longest time away since I moved West over five years ago. It's dark and cold and damp. But the hills here have a quiet beauty, and I'm so happy to be visiting such wonderful family. After the weekend we'll be heading to another place associated with apples--New York, the Big Apple. I can't wait. We're going to the opera, going to take in a few museums, catch up with family and friends, and shop! I love the West, and am a Westerner through and through. But as the old saying goes, you can take the girl out of New York but you can't take New York outta the girl.

wintertime.

Moonrise, Mamaronek, 1094 Edward Steichen

Winter is officially here. For the past two weeks it has been gray and dark and still. We had a little bit of sun yesterday, but not nearly enough for us Coloradans, who proclaim proudly to anyone who will listen that we usually get over three hundred days of sunshine a year. These few weeks, the darkest of the year, seem to offer me a time for slowing down. This time of year is for sleeping late, and sometimes even getting back into bed during the day, cooking warm and hearty food, listening to beautiful Christmas music, and staying in. So I'm deciding to not fight the hibernation, but to relish it. Because, as with most things we learn to enjoy, it will all be over before we know it.

the bad news bears

I've been listening to NPR today, and I have to say the reports I hear on our world and our economy are grim. There is an excellent story about a massive homeless shelter in Los Angeles that really got me thinking. Thinking about how grateful and lucky I am to have a (pretty nice) roof over my head and such delicious and organic food to eat. This holiday season I feel more of a need not only to count my blessings, but to donate my time, energy and my money to help those who need it. Because there are simply so many of them out there. {Treaty, 1974, Robert Rauschenberg}

the passage of time

new photo, old finish

Six years ago today A. and I first fell in love. It was one of those enchanting New England falls where strewn leaves look like red and yellow rose petals scattered across the earth. We were in our last year in college and living on the airy third floor a beloved off campus co-op. It was during a full moon party that A. gently touched my waist and I felt an electric shock run through my limbs. I never wanted him to let go. Lucky for me he felt the same way: four months ago today on a gloriously sunny summer solstice we tied the knot. It feels important to mark the passage of time like this. Looking back helps you see it all for how wondrous it really is.

it's the moment that counts

The weather here in the mountains has taken quite a turn in the last few days. We've had heavy rain and a bit higher up, snow. As I write, our outdoor thermometer reads 39˚F. The mornings have been bloody freezing and the sky is as dark as a storm cloud which makes it very hard to get out of bed. With mixed emotions I pulled out all my cedar and lavender infused sweaters from their summer storage space.

This silent gray day was made for cooking something hot and hearty. So I'm making my favorite beef bolognese sauce, borrowed from someone else's Italian grandmother, which takes close to seven hours to cook. No, you read that right, I said seven hours. It's been so much easier and more pleasurable since we recieved all of our fabulous kitchen appliances from our wedding. (Thanks everyone!) A. and I are going to make lasagne with it later tonight. And while it's slowly simmering away I'm going to listen to the Cowboy Junkie's Trinity Sessions, talk to some friends, drink some tea before switching later to wine, and watch Masterpiece Theatre.

fog, paradise divide 2007

building something out of nothing

I'm still wretchedly sick. And I'm also wretchedly bored. I've watched loads of movies, logged some serious hours in bed, eaten loads of chicken soup, and I'm still sick. Maybe it's time to re-learn an important lesson:

A few years ago, A. and I decided to ditch our little mountain town for a few months and take a big month long trip to Brazil. We had no specific itinerary but we did have two stipulations: we wanted to see a real and authentic Brazil and we wanted to be by the beach as much as possible. After days of airports, planes and buses across the whole of the Americas we had at last made it back to the middle of nowhere. Jericoacoara, Ceara, our destination, was a place without a lot of things, chief among them roads. The only way to get in and out was to drive in an open air, off-road bus over the swollen dunes of the beach, a bumpy and slow but enchanting ride. As the bus crested up and down the dunes, circled passed a quiet lagoon, and skipped its way across the tall sandy grass A.’s gaze met mine often. The excitement of everyone on the bus was palpable; we were headed to a secret a forgotten place. When we finally arrived the bus driver took us down the main stretch of sand, proudly showing off a swarm of guesthouses, cafes, bars and the local version of a grocery store before finally stopping at the end of the line. Jeri sits on the left part of an almost peninsula that juts out into Atlantic on Brazil’s jagged outline of a coast, just a hair south of the equator. The town faces west as it gazes over the ocean and is almost entirely surrounded by enormous sand dunes that make up a national park. When we arrived it was late afternoon and the sun’s golden hue was disappearing over the edge of the ocean. It was hot. And spectacular. We wanted to swim, eat and drink our way through this paradise, and set about our task as quickly as possible. It was right about then that my body started to fail me. It all started with some bug bites. A mosquito, or rather a hoard of those suckers, found their way into our room one night and quickly devoured our fresh non-tropical flesh. And while A. recovered relatively unscathed from the event, I was not so lucky. My body completely turned on itself, reacting to the bites like they were poison. What started with red swollen itchy skin led to a full on feverish flu. With that I was miserably locked out of this Eden and chained instead to my bed. To me it was a devestating start to what was supposed to be a lusciously romantic adventure. One day, as I graduated from bed to a deck chair at our little pousada, I did absolutely nothing. Nothing. I didn't sleep, I didn't read. I didn't try to watch one of the horrendous telenovelas that seemed to be the only programming available in the whole of Brazil. I sat and did the only thing I had energy for, which was nothing. As I sat, quiet thoughts and meditations crossed my mind, and I realized that there is a lot to nothing. I learned, in that chair, what surrendering looks like. Let go, the universe seemed to be saying. All you can do is let go. And then open your eyes and see how much you can build out of nothing.

colt, brazil