Matt Spohn is a big wall climber, photographer, and runs a family-owned rock climbing gym called Stoneworks located in the Portland, OR metropolatin area. His photos and interview were featured in the Common Climber Big Wall edition.
Dear Memory,
I make tea. I make quesadillas. We don’t have much food and what we do have in the fridge isn’t appetizing. We place an order for online grocery delivery. It’ll arrive in a few days—eggs, bread, oat milk, soap, olive oil, chocolate, vegan mayo, chips, salsa, Gatorade. I put Gatorade on there in case we get sick, thinking, it has electrolytes—maybe that will save us. I know my thinking is being affected.
We go for a walk. We cross the street whenever we see anyone, which isn’t frequent. After our walk, I wipe down the bottoms of our shoes. We wash our hands. The dogs look at us with jealousy, but I shrug it off. “If you guys get the virus on you and we get sick, then we won’t be able to feed you,” I tell them, justifying not walking them.
Today, is not a good day. My chest hurts and a have an itch in the back of my throat.
Michelle is tired: “The weighted blanket has dragged me down,” she says, referring to this feeling she gets while pregnant, which another friend assured us was a normal feeling. We can’t go into the doctors anymore without “reason,” though it seems like every day brings reason to go.
Today, Michelle is throwing up. Her morning sickness has come back.
I hang from the pull-up bar in our kitchen for a minute. I have stopped reading the news. Both Michelle and I were having nightmares after scrolling through NPR and the NY Times on our phones every night, lying in bed.
What if I die before she is born? What if Michelle gets sick? These are my nightmares. My anxiety induces symptoms. I feel pressure in my chest is…I feel warm.
The shower is clogged. Thankfully, we have our tiny home out back. Now, we go out there to shower. It smells of cedar.
Our groceries will be delivered in an hour. We go back and forth about using the delivery service, about the ethics of putting someone else in harm’s way, about someone else doing our grocery shopping. I have diabetes. Michelle is pregnant. There is so much to say and there is nothing to say.
I work from home, writing for Nike. My dad and I closed down Stoneworks on March 12. We laid-off our employees. Michelle is out of a job.
The groceries come. I spend a full hour wiping down the items. One at a time. I wear rubber gloves, spray them, wipe them. I let the disinfectant drip down the sides. If the virus comes into our house, it will be bad.
I text friends a lot more. I have never used FaceTime and now I use it and House Party and Instagram video daily.
My sister in-law is a nurse in DC. The maid of honor at our wedding is a doctor in New York. There is so much to think about besides climbing. I have removed it from my memory. Though, sometimes it comes up, like when I post a workout for the kids I train online. I hear from one parent that a kid doesn’t leave his room. He has been climbing for almost 2 years and has done V10. He’s done 100 pull-ups in a row. Now, he lays in bed.
My therapist says I have a bad case of the “what-ifs” and the “yeah, buts.” Don’t we all?
Just before the States were hit, I was in Mexico climbing with my friend Josh. There was an underlying tension between us—families back home; wives, kids, kids on the way. We climbed well, but it’s already forgotten. That feeling of weightlessness.
I hang-board on occasion, but I don’t really see the point. My friend, an ER doctor got sick with the virus. My brother in-law too. My parents are all nearing 70. My dad has asthma. My mother in-law recently finished cancer treatment.
My therapist says, “you need to hang.”
“Like from a pull-up bar,” I ask?
“Yes, that is what your body knows. It keeps it calm.”
So, I hang for one minute, four times a day. My body needs it. To feel that memory.
Michelle makes muffins. One minute goes by.
I am sorry, but we must postpone saying goodbye. This is what I want, no more goodbyes.
We hold alone our memories of togetherness—those rituals of smiling and of laughter beginning some place so deep it’s immune to infection, to death.
I read on the news that we can’t properly bury the dead. They wait in refrigerated trucks.
I listen to the gray sky and to the rain. I listen to the crows cawing outside the window. Everything is outside our windows. Our windows are small.
What is the word for an entire world in fear? What is the word for hope infected with sudden doubt?
Michelle and I create names for our baby. We say them, and they are a gift. When we say them in the garden they smell like early Spring and fresh blooms and rain.
500. 1,000. 10,245. 30,000. 600,000. “Simply take yourself—in all your singularity, importance, complexity, love—and multiply by 7 billion. See? Nothing to it.”
I am not interested in climbing. Yes, this is new. Yes, this is new—my frantic improvising, my quick-paced relearning of how to love and say goodbye. My deciding what truly matters. The weight of my body walking and walking and walking between rooms.
I make tea. I make quesadillas. We don’t have much food and what we do have in the fridge isn’t appetizing. We place an order for online grocery delivery. It’ll arrive in a few days—eggs, bread, oat milk, soap, olive oil, chocolate, vegan mayo, chips, salsa, Gatorade. I put Gatorade on there in case we get sick, thinking, it has electrolytes—maybe that will save us. I know my thinking is being affected.
We go for a walk. We cross the street whenever we see anyone, which isn’t frequent. After our walk, I wipe down the bottoms of our shoes. We wash our hands. The dogs look at us with jealousy, but I shrug it off. “If you guys get the virus on you and we get sick, then we won’t be able to feed you,” I tell them, justifying not walking them.
Today, is not a good day. My chest hurts and a have an itch in the back of my throat.
Michelle is tired: “The weighted blanket has dragged me down,” she says, referring to this feeling she gets while pregnant, which another friend assured us was a normal feeling. We can’t go into the doctors anymore without “reason,” though it seems like every day brings reason to go.
Today, Michelle is throwing up. Her morning sickness has come back.
I hang from the pull-up bar in our kitchen for a minute. I have stopped reading the news. Both Michelle and I were having nightmares after scrolling through NPR and the NY Times on our phones every night, lying in bed.
What if I die before she is born? What if Michelle gets sick? These are my nightmares. My anxiety induces symptoms. I feel pressure in my chest is…I feel warm.
The shower is clogged. Thankfully, we have our tiny home out back. Now, we go out there to shower. It smells of cedar.
Our groceries will be delivered in an hour. We go back and forth about using the delivery service, about the ethics of putting someone else in harm’s way, about someone else doing our grocery shopping. I have diabetes. Michelle is pregnant. There is so much to say and there is nothing to say.
I work from home, writing for Nike. My dad and I closed down Stoneworks on March 12. We laid-off our employees. Michelle is out of a job.
The groceries come. I spend a full hour wiping down the items. One at a time. I wear rubber gloves, spray them, wipe them. I let the disinfectant drip down the sides. If the virus comes into our house, it will be bad.
I text friends a lot more. I have never used FaceTime and now I use it and House Party and Instagram video daily.
My sister in-law is a nurse in DC. The maid of honor at our wedding is a doctor in New York. There is so much to think about besides climbing. I have removed it from my memory. Though, sometimes it comes up, like when I post a workout for the kids I train online. I hear from one parent that a kid doesn’t leave his room. He has been climbing for almost 2 years and has done V10. He’s done 100 pull-ups in a row. Now, he lays in bed.
My therapist says I have a bad case of the “what-ifs” and the “yeah, buts.” Don’t we all?
Just before the States were hit, I was in Mexico climbing with my friend Josh. There was an underlying tension between us—families back home; wives, kids, kids on the way. We climbed well, but it’s already forgotten. That feeling of weightlessness.
I hang-board on occasion, but I don’t really see the point. My friend, an ER doctor got sick with the virus. My brother in-law too. My parents are all nearing 70. My dad has asthma. My mother in-law recently finished cancer treatment.
My therapist says, “you need to hang.”
“Like from a pull-up bar,” I ask?
“Yes, that is what your body knows. It keeps it calm.”
So, I hang for one minute, four times a day. My body needs it. To feel that memory.
Michelle makes muffins. One minute goes by.
I am sorry, but we must postpone saying goodbye. This is what I want, no more goodbyes.
We hold alone our memories of togetherness—those rituals of smiling and of laughter beginning some place so deep it’s immune to infection, to death.
I read on the news that we can’t properly bury the dead. They wait in refrigerated trucks.
I listen to the gray sky and to the rain. I listen to the crows cawing outside the window. Everything is outside our windows. Our windows are small.
What is the word for an entire world in fear? What is the word for hope infected with sudden doubt?
Michelle and I create names for our baby. We say them, and they are a gift. When we say them in the garden they smell like early Spring and fresh blooms and rain.
500. 1,000. 10,245. 30,000. 600,000. “Simply take yourself—in all your singularity, importance, complexity, love—and multiply by 7 billion. See? Nothing to it.”
I am not interested in climbing. Yes, this is new. Yes, this is new—my frantic improvising, my quick-paced relearning of how to love and say goodbye. My deciding what truly matters. The weight of my body walking and walking and walking between rooms.