The Art of Falling: A Love Story

Author’s note: I won’t make excuses for why I haven’t blogged in over a month. I just haven’t felt inspired to do so. I guess I’ve been a bit depressed about not riding, Janky, that tired old tale. But Janky is showing signs of improvement, I’ve got a trip to Fruita and Moab this month to ride some of the most epic and luscious singletrack in the world, and I think I have my writing mojo back, as the following story would bear witness. You tell me. Right on, ride on.
~Uma

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Nearly eleven years ago I was still making excuses about why I couldn’t start teaching yoga. The ‘what ifs’ overwhelmed me: What if I didn’t know enough? What if I was wrong? What if I wasn’t good enough? I’d been practicing for years already. I was sure I wanted to teach, to share the gifts of yoga with others, but I had excuse after excuse about how I just wasn’t ready.

Doubt is a psychological cancer and in my life it has required a sort of mental bone marrow transplant to overcome it at times. This particular bout was sent into remission by a beautiful, amazing woman named Callie. She was my friend, my teacher, my mentor, and a radiant example of what life could be like without the paralysis of doubt.

Callie saw through my excuses and called bullshit on it by matter-of-factly informing me over lunch one day that I would start apprenticing and teaching some of the basic classes. This was not a suggestion, this was an order. Old school old world yoga ways. I knew the sequences by heart, but now I had to figure out the dialogue, brush up on areas where my anatomy was weak, and overcome my stage fright. I was leaving for a European vacation the following day, and I had three weeks’ to prepare, mentally. I was clearly expected to begin teaching when I got home.

The morning I returned from Paris I got the call.

“She’s dead” the caller informed me.

I crumpled, disbelieving at first then howling inconsolably. Details streamed towards me but I heard little of it. Climbing accident. Her fiancé was belaying her. Coma. Quick, painless death. I don’t know the details, whether the equipment failed or he did. Either way, she was gone. And honestly so much of John went with her death that it didn’t matter. Gone was this incredible force of positivity in the world. Gone was Callie’s unfailing optimism, her readiness to laugh and lighten up the heaviest situation. Gone was one of the brightest, most shining people I’ve ever met.

. . . . . . .

The first class I ever taught was Callie’s class–the one I used to go to– a week after her death. It wasn’t a large class, and I no longer worried about how I performed. I had no doubt, no fear, no nerves–just a raw, massive, almost palpable grief. In these first few classes we did a little ‘yoga’, but mostly we collapsed in tearful heaps on our mats, with huge, wracking sobs rattling the grief in us. We held each other and cried and railed at God, the universe and everything. “Why Callie”, we asked each other repeatedly as if there could be any acceptable answer.

I still miss her. She was a powerful, definitive and positive influence in my life. And somehow, even in death she remains thus. For years after she was gone I’d lost all interest in rock climbing which had never been more than an occasional bouldering expedition–nothing too high, nothing scary. Stuff you could practically walk up like a ladder. It wasn’t that I was afraid of climbing as much as I couldn’t bear the association with such deep loss.

I’ve been sport climbing at the Portland Rock Gym for about a year now but only seriously for the past 6 months. I started it as something to do during rainy months when it became increasingly obvious that I could no longer train for road racing because of a persistent injury. But my intrest in it has become more serious, more important to me now. When I’m climbing there is nothing outside of the present moment. There is deep stillness, a quiet calm that I crave. Not being able to ride like I want to, climbing has filled the gap in more ways than one. And the time had come to take the next step: lead climbing.

The lead test is required in order to become approved to lead climb at the gym. It’s basically a safety measure. You must lead a 5.10- route (not the easiest thing in the world on its own) and you must climb it clean, meaning no falls, no takes, no hanging out. At the top instead of clipping in to the anchors you take a fall. It’s only about a 12 foot drop at most. Really, it’s not such a big deal. I was working with a trusted partner and in very good, very experienced hands. All the same I felt the fear rising and riding shotgun was my old nemesis: Doubt.

No one was pushing me to do this but doing so opens up an entirely new world of climbing opportunity. It also opens up a whole new level of risk. I’ve been building up to it for weeks, and after a few false starts to actually take the test I finally decided tonight’s the night.

It was a real test of my yoga training. My breathing was calm and steady. I plotted the first six moves. I knew the route, had cleaned it many times, but had also taken a few falls on it. My mind was calm, but I could sense the doubt and fear straining to get in. Humor often works as an antidote to this, so I joked about trying not to puke on Sally or Chris. But something else I realized: The doubt was unnecessary. I knew I could do this. I’d been preparing diligently for it for weeks. I was never going to be more ready. And as my climbing partner Preston says, there is no failure, only learning. If I didn’t pass, I’d take it again. Simple.

Wile-E Coyote cartoon-like visions of falling badly, swinging into the wall and breaking all my teeth out of my face ran through my head. It was ridiculous, really. It was more of a drop than a wild, swinging fall known as a “whipper”. Hell, I pay good money for that sort of thing at the amusement park on rides with names like “Drop Zone”.

The only thought in my mind as I touched the first holds was: You can do this. You can! I climbed well. My form was good until I hesitated. That hesitation cost me: I started getting the dreaded ‘Elvis leg’. From the calm detached yoga mind, I was able to watch my leg shaking even though my breath was smooth and relaxed. “Stop it!” I willed my leg. The shaking continued, uncontrollably. “STOP IT!” More shaking. I remembered then the value of that old adage ‘feel the fear and do it anyway’. I had to move. Up. Only Up. “I can do this.”

As I approached the top jug I felt that I’d screwed up, that I didn’t clean it and I was so pissed off about it that I scarcely had time to even think when the fall came naturally and easily. I cussed a bit and kicked at the wall furious to think I’d failed. But as Sal lowered me expertly and I arrived safely upon terra firma, Chris casually informed me that I aced it, and my form was good except one little place where my footwork was a bit sloppy. I’ve been working hard on my footwork and technique. It paid off. I could actually feel good about my performance.

High fives all around. After about 10 minutes the adrenaline rush passed. Sallie was grinning more than me at the point, and I was shaking like a drunk in detox, but I’d done it. It was over, and at the same time marked a new beginning.

. . . . . . .

It used to be whenever I touched the rope I’d remember Callie and how deeply that loss affected me. Now I think of her and how much presence she still has in my life in that when I doubt myself and start to feel the old numbness of fear setting up shop in my bones I can just lean into the faith of another, even though she’s long gone. The loss is real but I’m so grateful for what little time I had with her, and the gratitude is greater than the grief these days.

As for the doubt, it’s in remission and I intend to win the battle however long it takes. I intend to do some ‘real’ climbing, outside in some of the most scenic and epic climbing spots in the world. It is almost certain doubt will surface in these much more challenging scenarios. I imagine those stories will be more colorful, more upbeat, and have pretty pictures and a bumpin’ sound track to match. But for me rock climbing is like bike racing is like yoga. It in an inner journey completely independent of views, or vistas, or gear or outside or inside or inside out. This is about where spirit meets bone and tendon and muscle and blood and guts.

This is a story of love of life.

. . . . .

Thank you Sallyanne, Preston, Michael, Courtney, Anita… Yeah. Love & respect.

And Callie: forever, for sure…Climb on!