I could see one of my sons out of the corner of my eye. He was ascending much more quickly than I was; he had the strength and agility that comes from hours spent at the climbing gym and multiple summer days exploring rocky cliffs throughout northwestern Ontario. It mattered little that this was his first time climbing a ridge of ice.
I, on the other hand, had to think about every move, wedging the crampons attached to my boots firmly into the frozen waterfall, repeatedly swinging the picks until I was certain they were secure enough to hold my weight as I slowly clambered up the knobby surface.
When he reached my level he hollered, “Take!” to his belayer before leaning back into his harness.
“Turn around,” he said. “Look at where you are.”
I took a deep breath.
I’m not a climber. I am not a thrill seeker. Not at all a risk-taker. In fact, I’m a worrier. I have spent my life in constant battle with a mind that can quickly and irrationally compose a variety of horrific scenarios for any situation, to assume the worst, and to tumble those thoughts in an endless cycle of “what ifs.” A mind that works well for the art of writing, but not so great for the art of living.
I, on the other hand, had to think about every move, wedging the crampons attached to my boots firmly into the frozen waterfall, repeatedly swinging the picks until I was certain they were secure enough to hold my weight as I slowly clambered up the knobby surface.
When he reached my level he hollered, “Take!” to his belayer before leaning back into his harness.
“Turn around,” he said. “Look at where you are.”
I took a deep breath.
I’m not a climber. I am not a thrill seeker. Not at all a risk-taker. In fact, I’m a worrier. I have spent my life in constant battle with a mind that can quickly and irrationally compose a variety of horrific scenarios for any situation, to assume the worst, and to tumble those thoughts in an endless cycle of “what ifs.” A mind that works well for the art of writing, but not so great for the art of living.
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