Ok, it’s spring, and, uh, well, you’re not going to believe this, but though I’m at my office, my mind is not. Wife knows where it is, or at least could relate the nature of the topography. Somewhere on that divine razor’s edge.
Memory of an exhilarating perch on a narrow ledge high up something tall and steep has never left me. It constellates sporadically, but early every spring without fail. Dang. Much has changed in my life as well as in technical aspects of an ascent, but I’m fit and confident that I’d have no problem, at least not with the kinesthetic cerebrations.
On a mid-cliff ledge looking out, eye to eye with the clouds and swallows, an exuberant solemnity wells up – especially if you’re with a good friend (or kid!) and the route is challenging, but not several grades too difficult. All distraction falls away. There is no thought of anything else.
Indeed, there is no thought. Thinking would just get in the way. Each line has its own rhythm into which one naturally falls. Necessary details of the task could be no more apparent. At the ledge, as gear is rearranged, words seem superfluous and few are exchanged.
Sometimes you linger for a glance, snack, or drink, but not for long and not often because all know there is an inverse relationship between time spent on the edge and well being. Rocks fall, storms brew. Less time given for shit to happen the better.
Quite the paradox, eh? Visited with otherworldly elation while knocking on heaven’s door, one’s intentions lie just this side of the nave.
The Subtle Landscape 
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