Transitions in Paradox

Where I started: Jima Airport, SW EthiopiaThree weeks ago I flew from southwestern Ethiopia to central Montana, in six flights. When I arrived at the Bozeman airport, at 11:45 pm. I’d been traveling for thirty-eight hours. It was -5 degrees outside, a 75-degree drop from where I’d started. My van, choked full of a winter’s assortment of climbing gear, files, and poodle food, was waiting in the parking lot. Peter and I tossed in our bags and, when the sliding door would not stay shut because of the cold, I held it closed on the drive to what would become our home for the next twenty-two days.

The next morning, mid-unpack, jetlagged, and missing my gloves, I met Gretchen, a friend of a friend, for coffee.  I warned her of my state in my greeting. “This might be a bad idea,” I said. “I’m probably about as least like myself, or most like myself, as I could be.”

Gretchen smiled compassionately. “Transitions are always hard.”

Click to read more ...

Liminality, Defined. Day 1

There is a theory somewhere in my head that I can rob myself of my own creativity. As if there are two of me (or more) and if one takes flight and writes, the other will be left with nothing. Resistance can be a funny thing when you fight against yourself. Last night I sat talking to a friend about making choices. He evaluates, weighs, decides when things are prudent, when he has the skill, the time, enough information. I respect this. But I don't do it.

Growing up my father told us to test spaghetti by throwing it against the wall and to see if our jeans needed washing by seeing if they stoood up on their own.  This is my test.

The liminal line is new for me. It's not about Ethiopia, or climbing, or writing. It's about that space in-between everything.  It's about the life in that sliver.