Over the weekend, I watched as Walt attempted to cut down an overhanging branch along the driveway. It wasn’t going well for a number of reasons. First, it was hard to get any sort of leverage while balancing on an extended ladder 15 feet or so above the ground. Then, the hack saw was a disaster because it probably hadn’t been sharpened in forever. And it’s not like you want to cart up a chain saw and go at a tree willy nilly, not if you want to keep your limbs.

Mostly I was worried because this past week, Walt lost his dad (not COVID). As you can imagine, losing a parent in the middle of a pandemic complicates the whole grief process, creates a whole bunch of stress you aren’t necessarily aware of.

Holding the ladder so Walt wouldn’t plunge to his death, I couldn’t help thinking about my own father, who was pretty fond of reminding me that I was going to “cut my goddamned toes off ” if I went near a lawn mower” or “slice my hand clean off” if I so much as looked at his circular saw sideways. (Needless to say, I’m very cautious around sharp tools.)

I also remembered the stupid shit I did under just this kind of grief-induced stress. I mean, I once drove four hours north into  Georgia, instead of twenty minutes south from the airport when taking my kids to Fort Lauderdale after the death of their father.

Stress has a SERIOUS way of clouding one’s judgement.

Anyway, it took a few attempts to get the branch down. We had to get a retired climbing rope involved, and our car, and, eventually, the chainsaw, which made me wonder if I’d be able to get Walt to a hospital before he bled out…

It also got me thinking about my basic lack of tenacity–because I would’ve hired a tree surgeon the minute that branch gave me trouble, just so we’re clear–and this post I wrote a number of years ago.

 

Do you give up at the first sign of trouble?  Are you thrown by even the tiniest bump in the road?

So, I was ice climbing in New Hampshire this past weekend.  If you’ve never ice climbed before, picture a group of 10 or so men and women in puffy jackets, plastic helmets, and funny looking harnesses standing around in the cold making fun of one another. It’s a terrific time, if you don’t mind being heckled.

Climbing ice is an interesting way to get to know yourself and other people. You can spot tenacity, patience, problem-solving capabilities, physical strength, deliberateness, or the lack there of, just by observing how someone approaches a frozen waterfall.  You can see what someone is made of by how he or she handles the attendant obstacles.  In other words, ice climbing is a great metaphor for life.

Frankly, I don’t like my reaction to complications.  How quickly I give up at the first indication that things are not just going to lay down and go my way.

After two or three tries, and a whole bunch of thrashing about, if I can’t get my axes to stick in the ice, I’m outa there.

I’m fascinated by folks who will hang in looonnnnngggg after I would’ve packed my gear up and slogged back to the car.  My friend, John, for instance.  He’ll step back and study the possible routes of an ice wall before he even begins.  Then he’ll tap at the surface—tip, tip, tip—with his tools to see how they’ll play.   He’ll methodically slide the tip of his blade up and down the glistening ice to find the natural hooks.  And, if he falls mid-climb, he’ll dangle on the end of the belay rope, lean back and take a careful look around, then fish with his axe, first here, then there, until he finds a better hold to continue his ascent.  I can’t imagine him giving up. And I don’t think it even enters his mind that people are watching him, or that he’s taking too much time.

Maybe because I know how easily a locked door, or a flat tire, or a sour look can stop me in my tracks, I notice examples of bearish tenacity everywhere I go.

My stepson Zak, for instance.  Who went and burned the engine out of his first car—one of those short buses he’d spray-painted blue—by forgoing those silly little things called oil changes.  Being his father’s son, wanting to memorialize every single happy childhood memory no matter how bulky or inconvenient, he decided to drag said vehicle into the backyard and park it in the woods.  Which required three of his strongest friends. Two climbing ropes.  The use of our Subaru.  A chainsaw to cut down not one, but two full-grown trees. A come along, which for those of you who do not know, is a special tool to pull things that are way heavier than you.  Five hours. And a can of gas when the Subaru ran dry.  (Interestingly enough, permission from Walt and me was not deemed necessary.)

I’m making it my mission to build my stick-to-it-iveness.  I refuse to be the girl who makes a half-hearted attempt, fails, then slinks back to her crazy creek chair to watch others forge the way.  I don’t like what it says about me, or what it promises for my life.

I think the ability to overcome obstacles—tiny or large, imaginary or real— is the key to success in every venue.  Publishing, love, relationships, business, child rearing, art, you name it.  Without tenacity, you’ll wind up on the sidelines, in your mismatched pajamas, eating a frozen Swanson TV dinner (do they still make those?), while someone made of slightly tougher stuff enjoys the spoils.

Here are ways I’m going to practice dragging my bus into the woods.  I invite you to try them as well:

• Call the help line and work through an issue until resolved
• Watch multiple Youtube videos to study how it’s done
• Publish something even though I know it’s not perfect
• Call again, even though I know I’m being a pest
• Take my turn and forget that other people are waiting for a go
• Do it, and apologize later
• Enjoy the process, and relish growth
• Embrace the two steps forward, one step back theory

Next time I face a bump in the road, I’m going to gun the engine and absolutely destroy the Subaru’s alignment.