Eight Feet Felt Like Something

April eighteenth.

The notice said Saturday morning, low wall, all levels welcome. I had been looking at it for three weeks, or rather, Simone had pointed at it three weeks ago at the end of a Tuesday session and I had said 'I've never done that' in the way you say things you intend to let sit indefinitely. I did not let it sit indefinitely. I showed up at nine-fifteen with chalk on my hands before I'd even touched anything, which is a beginner mistake I am not ashamed of.

Here is the difference I did not expect: no harness is a whole separate conversation with your body. On the main wall you have the rope, the belay, the knowledge that the worst case is a pendulum swing and an embarrassed laugh. The low wall is eight feet. Maybe ten in places. You are not going to die. You know this. Your hands, apparently, have not been briefed. The first time I topped out, which means I got to the top, which means I stood on the edge of the wall and looked down at the concrete floor and thought, this is not very far, and also, this is not nothing, I stayed up there longer than necessary. Just to have done it. Just to let the fact of it settle.

Mid-problem. The reach before the reach.

I walked out with chalk in my ponytail and that particular ache in my forearms that means something was asked of them. The envelope from Carol is still on the kitchen counter. The collapsed bowl is still on the windowsill. The small object she sent is still waiting to find its place. Some things take their own time, and I am learning, slowly, in eight-foot increments, that that is not the same thing as stalling.

The looking-back-up part. That's the whole thing, really.