Jason once said to me and Kristin, "I feel like you can't really know me till you're in a canyon with me. You guys know me in a way other people don't. This is where I'm happiest. This is where I'm most alive."
I told Kristin a few months ago that I can't marry someone unless he goes canyoneering with me first. Part of that is because I wonder how he would do in those circumstances, how he would problem-solve, how much he would complain, how much he'd love it. But the other half of that is opening myself up to someone, letting him know me completely.
What Jason said is true. In the canyons, there's no opportunity for pretense. I am stripped down and raw. I'm just me.
You will see me at my very best, so filled with joy that I have to sing about it, grinning, playing, fearlessly lowering myself over 300 feet ledges, gleefully proclaiming that I ain't got time to bleed, letting out war cries that are so filled with emotion that my voice cracks, pushing myself physically, completely unconcerned with how awkward or ungraceful I look.
But you will also see the parts of me I don't let anyone see in my day to day life. You will see me dirty, exhausted, grouchy, terrified, and so-over-this. You will see me conquering fears, which sounds lovely and dramatic and romantic, but in the moment, is not pretty. At home, it's easy to hide this part of yourself. You put yourself in easy, familiar situations and keep those vulnerable parts of yourself locked away. But in a canyon, that becomes impossible. It's not like you can say, "No thanks, I think I'll skip this awkward rappel into an icy swimmer." The ropes have been pulled. You're committed to finishing this canyon. So the people you're with are going to see you freaking out, trying to get your breathing under control. They'll see you make your "O" face as you hit the water. They'll see you do a beached whale move to get out of the pothole. And they won't judge you or make fun of you because it just makes you more of a bad-ass.
Sometimes I feel exhausted from all the parts I play. I don't do it on purpose; it just happens. But in the canyons, I can just be myself. There is something powerful about knowing and being known, and that's what happens in the canyons.
I told Kristin a few months ago that I can't marry someone unless he goes canyoneering with me first. Part of that is because I wonder how he would do in those circumstances, how he would problem-solve, how much he would complain, how much he'd love it. But the other half of that is opening myself up to someone, letting him know me completely.
What Jason said is true. In the canyons, there's no opportunity for pretense. I am stripped down and raw. I'm just me.
You will see me at my very best, so filled with joy that I have to sing about it, grinning, playing, fearlessly lowering myself over 300 feet ledges, gleefully proclaiming that I ain't got time to bleed, letting out war cries that are so filled with emotion that my voice cracks, pushing myself physically, completely unconcerned with how awkward or ungraceful I look.
But you will also see the parts of me I don't let anyone see in my day to day life. You will see me dirty, exhausted, grouchy, terrified, and so-over-this. You will see me conquering fears, which sounds lovely and dramatic and romantic, but in the moment, is not pretty. At home, it's easy to hide this part of yourself. You put yourself in easy, familiar situations and keep those vulnerable parts of yourself locked away. But in a canyon, that becomes impossible. It's not like you can say, "No thanks, I think I'll skip this awkward rappel into an icy swimmer." The ropes have been pulled. You're committed to finishing this canyon. So the people you're with are going to see you freaking out, trying to get your breathing under control. They'll see you make your "O" face as you hit the water. They'll see you do a beached whale move to get out of the pothole. And they won't judge you or make fun of you because it just makes you more of a bad-ass.
Sometimes I feel exhausted from all the parts I play. I don't do it on purpose; it just happens. But in the canyons, I can just be myself. There is something powerful about knowing and being known, and that's what happens in the canyons.
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