Jordan Simon walking a highline in North Carolina. Photo taken by the author, Alex Willis.
DEDICATION: To the one person I trust the most on the other end of the rope, Thomas Skinner. We've shared many adventures (and quite a few epics) throwing ourselves at whatever objective seemed barely possible at the time. Now, a different kind of challenge comes. A pandemic bears down on all of us, and you stand to help hold it's weight as an ICU nurse. As you take the lead into this terrifying territory, I hope this essay brings you strength. Hope it reminds you of that un-namable reason that we climb. As always, I've got you man. You can do this. "Lets hit it!"
DEDICATION: To the one person I trust the most on the other end of the rope, Thomas Skinner. We've shared many adventures (and quite a few epics) throwing ourselves at whatever objective seemed barely possible at the time. Now, a different kind of challenge comes. A pandemic bears down on all of us, and you stand to help hold it's weight as an ICU nurse. As you take the lead into this terrifying territory, I hope this essay brings you strength. Hope it reminds you of that un-namable reason that we climb. As always, I've got you man. You can do this. "Lets hit it!"
When our eyes met, my mind was erased. The glance of a stranger, as brief as it was honest, had pulled me from my retreat.
With the busy auditorium of a university at my heels, I was retreating from due-dates and lectures, from bills and roads and concrete. I was diving into the little world of memories and dreamy doodles I had created in my notebook -- a place where I can smell pine needles and dry soil in July, feel the undulating tension of a highline beneath my bare feet, and process grief and hope with the gentle rhythm of my pen. But within that brief glance, something struck me with a great sense of awe: the promise of another universe existing, as rich as my own, within the mind of another. Anxious to write, but with nothing yet moving inside -- I looked up, and our eyes met. Ah. There it is.
I collect glances from strangers
furtive moments stolen from
what might have ever been
and when I’m home I store them
in the cabinet with the gin
they fit inside a second
but hold a world within
furtive moments stolen from
what might have ever been
and when I’m home I store them
in the cabinet with the gin
they fit inside a second
but hold a world within
The author, Alex Willis in Yosemite Valley. Photo by Thomas Skinner.
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I have repeated these lines in my head ever since, turning them over and peering in from different angles, hoping for the sweet release of understanding my own words. With this poem, I revel in the mystery of a stranger because for as long as I can remember, the natural world has been my retreat. From the first distant view of waterfall, its white line disappearing quietly into mist, to the fear of close calls with an unrelenting force, the outdoors have always been where I feel most alive. But I saw the vastness of nature reflected in that glance and heard the promise of powerful moments yet to come. Moments that may sneak up if I am open to them. There will be experiences in my life where awe will fall in front of me like a leaf wandering towards the ground, dancing with the breeze. It is poetry that gives me the ability to reach out and catch them, to hold them in my hands and look a while longer, whether deep in a muddy cave or exposed on a granite wall.
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against the rock, a pitter-patter
of carabiners tapping the rope is gently grabbing and against the rock they’re dragging while out of sight my partner climbs this sound it feels like magic of carabiners tapping, gently tapping on the granite I close my eyes and realize this sound, it never mattered till I quieted the chatter and focused on this pitter-patter I close my eyes to memorize this moment to inhabit of carabiners tapping, gently tapping on the granite |
Thomas Skinner traversing across Crest Jewel in Yosemite Valley. Photo taken by the author, Alex Willis.
In my notebook, I have a collection of writings like this that have yet to be read by anyone else. I sometimes use these to transport myself back to the most powerful experiences of my life. From realizing that other universes exist, to coping with one ending, I have found poetry in both strangers and loved ones. Loved ones who sought awe in its purest forms but found out that the risk of seeking cannot always be controlled. Just as brief as the glance of a stranger feels, so too can the life of a loved one seem. This has taught me that some experiences are not complete until they are shared. For many people to read a poem of loss is for many healing hands to hold together; for many people to read a poem about a mountain, many mountains to rise.
Columbine flowers growing along the approach trail for The Diamond - Longs Peak, Colorado. Photo taken by the author, Alex Willis.
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Photo of the author by Sierra Cranford.
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to speak well in grief
you should let your words fall
like leaves from an oak before winter
or the ice will grow heavy
as you cling to what was
your words, overburdened
will splinter
you should let your words fall
like leaves from an oak before winter
or the ice will grow heavy
as you cling to what was
your words, overburdened
will splinter
If the risk of seeking awe can be so great, why do some of us go to such dangerous lengths to find it? I believe it is because awe is vital to living a meaningful life. It is not enough to simply wonder what it feels like to be a bird, for some of us must don wings and leap, that we can feel the rising thermals for ourselves. It is not enough to simply wonder what our bodies and minds are capable of, for our true potential lies just at the edge of our limits -- but within our reach. I have felt this pull and seen the coin land unfavorably, but like many others, I return to the places where awe is plentiful, and I return ready for the capture.
with shadows as dark as doubt
that hide the marked route
with rusted gear, placed in fear
the wall, it hangs above me
with desire that burns and boils
and hands that yearn to toil
with worry and hope, I flake the ropes
the wall, it hangs above me
that hide the marked route
with rusted gear, placed in fear
the wall, it hangs above me
with desire that burns and boils
and hands that yearn to toil
with worry and hope, I flake the ropes
the wall, it hangs above me
Alex Johnson trekking across Chasm Lake in RMNP. Photo taken by the author, Alex Willis.
A few years ago, I thought poetry was an ancient language no longer spoken. Something only the most dedicated could learn and enjoy. It wasn’t until I found myself desperate to experience awe that I discovered my own poetry. To marinate in a moment, whittling down the narrative and quieting the mind; to feel vulnerable and exposed with the rawness of emotion; to immerse fully in the richness of the senses -- is to write a poem. When the pen moves, it may ebb and flow like the ocean with a gentle and predictable rhythm. It may wander and curve like an ox-bow river, or even draw words that clash and tumble like alpine rockfall, building with terrifying intensity until a sudden silence -- its echo ringing as you sleep. But whether in the glance of a stranger or the loss of a loved one, whether in the risk of pursuing awe or the promise that it will find you, we must be open to these experiences to cultivate them and bring them to blossom. I have discovered that that awe is a vital nutrient that must be shared for a meaningful life. For those willing, know that it dissolves well in ink. With poetry, we can join the nervous systems of strangers like the roots of aspens so that this nutrient can be shared. The world is full of inspiring places and time is full of transformative moments, but there can never be enough artists to share the beauty of it all. So, go and find your own poetry, that we all may flourish.