In a relationship, at least one of the two people has to be responsible for grounding it (ideally both). Without that, the relationship is quite susceptible to falling apart.
Just something I’ve learned recently.
Another thing I’ve learned: I’m in a serious relationship with climbing.
It’s not an exclusive relationship. Never has been. But at this point, my relationship with climbing is among the longest in my life, preceded only by a small handful of friendships. That and the relationships I have with my family.
So what’s the secret to this longevity?
Climbing is possibly the most grounding presence in my life. Whatever happens, whatever heartbreaks occur, whatever tragedies might befall, climbing has always been there for me, and I know it always will.
It doesn’t even expect reciprocal treatment. I don’t have to show up for climbing (though, barring chronic illness or catastrophic injury, I always plan to). But climbing needs no reassurance on that account. It’s fine whether I show up or not. I can leave for however long; climbing will always be there.
I mean this in a very literal sense. Climbing is always in place, right where I left it. The cliffs will remain, the routes, the boulders. Sure, the holds may get polished over time, but the route itself will stay right where it is.
Climbing is immovable, in its own way, and so I can always trust it to be there.
Plus, we have a history. In times past, it almost didn’t matter what had befallen: the end of a long relationship, the death of a close friend, some particularly depressive episode in my life.
Even in those times when I couldn’t bear to work, couldn’t drag myself from bed, times when I wanted to eat my feelings and drink my sorrows, moments when I couldn’t find motivation for anything—I could still find motivation to climb.
In those dark moments, climbing showed me who it truly is: an impartial vessel, into which I can pour the inner demons, expunge all the doubts. I can smash them against the rock, wring them from my body, perhaps exorcise them completely; climbing won’t care.
And besides, climbing is such a beautiful mistress. In the Fall in Rumney, with the leaves turning red and orange against the Baker River Valley. In the winter in Siurana, when the sun sets over the vineyards of the Catalunyan countryside, and you can sip a beer from the little village, more than a thousand years old. In Greece, with its seaside cliffs. In Mexico, with its towering bolted multipitches. And of course, in Yosemite, with its granite prow sufficient to inspire a spiritual awe in all who visit.
Climbing becomes even more beautiful the more I visit, the more I commit. My body responds to its touch, making itself lean and strong. And my mind responds to its infinite, patient challenges, making itself brave and focused. I become more present, more grateful.
The better I get as a lover, the bigger the playground for exploring.
What’s more: climbing doesn’t mind if I have other relationships—in fact, it encourages it. Climbing is a wingman, a social connector, the best possible excuse for a date.
Of course, if I am with someone who also loves climbing, we can have threesomes every weekend. It’s a beautiful thing to share our love. Conversely, if I’m with someone who doesn’t climb, no pasa nada—but they’ll need to understand I do have a mistress.
Climbing takes me as I am, but it also questions me, as life itself does. Climbing asks, do you really want this? are you spending this brief time on earth wisely? what is your relationship to nature, to others, and to yourself? are you kind with yourself? with others? do you want them to succeed? do you want them to find joy and passion in their life? Do they make you feel safe? Can they trust you to do the same?
Like many relationships, this one can seem like something of a black box to those on the outside. People who have never been in a relationship with climbing can’t quite understand what the big deal is.
But that’s fine; they don’t need to.
In the end, no one can truly understand what goes on in a relationship, sometimes even including those who are in it.
As for climbing, I can always say: thank you for being there, even despite all my many flaws, always.