(It seems to me that a blog is the ideal space for the exploration of a project-in-process; as such, it should be honest, somewhat rough and true-to-the-experience, as well as polished enough to be readable. This post aims for this balance in content and tone.)
I haven't blogged since late September, although I have been busy with both climbing and writing. Trying hard to avoid the types of injury that come from over zealousness, I have been steady at The Reach this Autumn; I've climbed two or three times a week with friends, mostly top-roping, only pushing myself in small increments when I've felt strong and safe enough to go a bit further, to, say, a friendly 6b. The recent exception to this is my recent foray into lead-climbing. Although I've co-owned a rope for a year now, I've been wary of taking her out (yes, the rope is a 'she', named 'Betty'); lead-climbing has always seemed more time consuming, riskier, more serious than I've felt as a climber.
It turns out that lead-climbing has re-energised my afternoons at The Reach, opening up new routes and walls, and challenging my recent thinking about confidence, and fear. There are (sometimes) long moments in lead-climbing when you are on the wall without being held tight, when you are between clips, and any slip would result in a fall of, say, a few feet, rather than a few inches. In the past, this would have prevented me from climbing above a 5/5+ while leading; however, lately, nudged myself toward the fear, for some unknown reason. I wonder if I'm getting closer to it, to examine it better as a writer? Or is it that I'm better prepared to cope with a small fall?
The other day, in preparing for a local poetry reading, I re-acquainted myself with one of my older poems, from my first pamphlet, smithereens.
Rules
Before your body is on the wall
you've got to say to the guy
in the other harness, the one
who has checked your figure-of-eight,
who has locked the carabiner tight,
who will feed you rope,
who will take in the slack,
who will lower you foot by foot
down the fake mountain side:
I'm climbing.
And when up high, in the overhang's
shadow, chalky hands shaking, unsure
of what strength's left in you, unable
to see the holds, knowing nothing
of their size or contour, uncertain
of everything except the weight
of your own body:
I'm falling.
The poem, published in 2010, addresses the level of uncertainty that accompanies climbing, and the associated thrill that this affords those who take up the sport. And it means more to me now that I'm lead-climbing, with further to fall.
I hadn't planned to write poetry on this residency; I have been bashing away at a short story/novel for the past months, based on some of my own climbing experiences. (I should point out that I've never written a novel before; I am learning how as I go!) But finding this old poem has got me thinking about the immediacy of verse and how it can reflect the act of climbing in presentation and sound. I feel myself turning to the idea poetry again; not actually walking toward it yet, but considering it seriously.
I am also making plans to take some poet friends climbing in January. They will climb, for the first time, and write about the experience. Meanwhile, there are adult and youth climbers who are working away at their own first-time writing based on their time at The Reach. I am plotting to spend time in the cafe, too, unofficially, as a coffee drinker/jacket potato lunch customer, but also as a writer, in my remote office, watching the climbers, and seeing what comes to the page.