There is only continual motion. If I rest, if I think inward, I go mad. There is so much, and I am torn in different directions, pulled thin, taut against horizons too distant for me to reach. Swift, ceaseless pace. Will I never rest in sunlight again – slow, languid & golden with peace?
Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
I picked back up the Sylvia Plath tome of a biography by Heather Clark, Red Comet, earlier this year and have also occasionally picked through Plath’s Unabridged Journals, finding much I identified with. It is easy to focus on Plath’s mental illness and death but the light in which she not only exuded but benefited from is, I think, just as important to remember, if not more so. While I can relate to Plath’s health and creative struggles, I also like to think I relate to the things that brought her joy and the ways in which she celebrated her triumphs, as well. Nature in particular has always been a comfort, but the pandemic opened doors for me to step back outside and seek the sunlight. It was among the trees and above the ground and within the salty waters, the quiet of all that is wild and undeterred, that I gifted myself the space and time to determine my self-worth and to act accordingly.
I became an active participant for the first time rather than a bystander to all I could ever want, need, and achieve. I began to put my heart into every day, healing from what came before but also discovering the potential of now and of the future. A future I could envision. Connected with myself in awe over how much has changed, how much I’ve changed. Knowing finally, finally – I am more than okay, I know happiness and how it is mine to cultivate. I am fulfilled by words and experience and so much love. I made certain I would arrive here, I believed it was possible somewhere in my depths, and I kept going – despite, despite. Looking out over fields of wildflowers, longleaf pines guarding my back, I can witness the growth ahead but also feel that growth within myself. No longer truly a witness because I have burned the invasive, I have cut away the dead, I have made space for renewal. Being secure in all I have built, acknowledging all I have been able to withstand, and embracing what I have always deserved: more.
One of the outdoor activities that has become a new favorite of mine within the past few years has been rock-climbing, an exercise in not only the literal sense but also of mindfulness. The only focus while climbing is on the next move while all other distractions, noise, and thoughts fall away. I didn’t notice this connection at first, but I read an article by Michael Levy on Austin Howell, a free-solo climber who worked through his mental distress after a brain injury by climbing without a rope. While there are obviously mixed feelings about free-soloing in and of itself, Howell was also candid about how climbing, and subsequently free-soloing, was an escape from his battles with depression. Some may say Howell always had a death wish considering his decision to consistently climb without a rope, but there are studies that suggest climbing in general is a therapeutic tool in regards to mental health. In my own experiences thus far, I believe this to be true.
After my boyfriend also read the article, we discussed the connection between climbing and mental health at length – the ways in which he has also felt its benefits and why it has remained his favorite activity since he began bouldering in middle school and then advancing to rock-climbing while studying at Clemson University. He spoke of how climbing forced him to clear his mind so that the only things that remained were gear management, risk assessment, the rock itself, and the plan forward. Perpetual tracing of the eyes on where to place hands and feet and gear, what is beneath and what a fall would entail, sometimes even retreating in order for the plan to be a sound and secure one. He described how he loves climbing for the same reason others love to sail – in both instances, it is never about the destination but rather the journey. As soon as the boat leaves the port, you are there. And so, as soon as your foot comes off the ground, you have already begun your journey.
My most recent climbing adventure was Boardwalk at Shiprock Cliff near Grandfather Mountain in North Carolina. It was a 5.8 climb, which is considered a moderate difficulty and was only my fourth climb on rock to date. I struggled to even get my feet off the ground, attempting to follow my boyfriend in the same way he began but completely incapable of doing so. Another climber was nearby and observing for a bit before he came over and advised other ways I could begin. It was an immediate lesson in humility for me, shedding the inherent need for perfectionism I often carry. This is where I leave all that behind, I reminded myself – drop the anchor of perfectionism to the ground so that the only thing I need to carry up with me is my body. This body that can do miraculous things, I have discovered. Instead of allowing shame to wash over me when I needed help, I listened and allowed my stubborn streak to win out over any embarrassment I felt. I am not one to give up quickly even when mad and frustrated, which is sometimes a fault but when it comes to climbing, it has become one of my greatest strengths.
As soon as I made the move that finally got me onto the route, my route, I heard cheers from my boyfriend far above me as well as from this complete stranger below me. As I grinned and thanked him, he simply said: “Sometimes getting started is the hardest part. You’ve got this the rest of the way, I have no doubt.” And he was right.
It was then that I realized that what may work for someone else may not work for me. And I couldn’t help but think, “Oh, how much like life.” My eyes roaming for the next spots I could place my feet, then my hands, I took a deep breath and moved – and everything else fell away. I became central, attached to the moment for there is no place your mind can escape to except the path you are currently on. Nothing else existed, none of the past and none of the future, just this present moment of feeling every part of the rock as though it were my lover and I was discovering its body for the first time. Falling in love with the shape and movement of it, with how my body felt roaming over it, dragging myself up as my breath became labored and my mind became steady, clear, focused. Upon reaching the summit, crossing that edge to an even plane on top, one can’t help but look out towards the open horizon, peer down at all that was left behind on the journey, and become centered in the marriage of movement and mindfulness. One can’t help but think, every time: “Yes. I did that. I made it here against all odds.”
Oh, how much like life.
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