In my academic career many writers-both living and
dead-informed me of the cathartic power of writing. The writing process is remarkable for how it raises
the matters of the subconscious to the surface.
The pen is like a lantern illuminating the depths of the mind. I am constantly amazed what an hour of
writing reveals to me. I can go from
writing mindless prose to suddenly uncovering a single thread of insight, and
following it to thoughts previously absent in the conscious mind.
In my sports career many athletes spoke to me through
magazine or video interviews how the act of performing the sport they love
clears their mind. Most famously-to
myself at least-is a quote from Brian Shima, a renowned rollerblader from “back
in the day.” An interviewer asked Shima
what goes through his mind when he performs tricks. Shima replied that there was no thought when
he performed. He likened it to blacking
out, the absence of conscious thought or even memory. I’ve read other athletes respond
similarly. They say they love sport because,
in the moment, nothing else matters.
In climbing conscious thought is absolutely necessary to
succeed. To say that I approach climbing
as an activity devoid of thought would be a total lie. Climbing requires a high degree of cognitive
complexity. Hauling 160 pounds of meat
up a vertical or overhanging wall is no simple task. But I have found that conscious, rational,
discriminating thought is a hindrance when I am on the wall, and too many
questions clutter the performance: Can I
reach that hold? Am I breathing
enough? Where are my feet? My arms are tired…how much longer can I hold
on?
What Shima was getting at is the absence of thought and the presence
of experience, or instinct. Hours of
practice at a particular task yield an automatic response to certain situations
or stimuli. When I climb at my peak I
have already spent ample time thinking about the route, the holds, the crux,
the different factors that will impede or support me. This all happens on the ground. When I am on the wall movements become nearly
automatic responses from a glance at the coming sequence of holds. I don't fully remember the climb when I come down.
This instinct frees up the mind to focus only on the present
not with a laser-like focus, but a calm awareness. Coming off the wall with this awareness
often feels more cathartic to me than writing.
Writing illuminates the mind like a lantern. But the lack of thought I feel when climbing,
the instinctual response and resulting action, transcends illumination. Illumination also reveals distractions along
the path. Following a good climbing
session is as though my mind navigates through the dark without seeing, simply
becoming aware of obstacles and turns.
That clarity of mind is why I love climbing. The joy of sending a difficult route, and the
adrenaline rush from exposure and the risk of injury certainly factor in to my
enjoyment as well. But, ultimately, I
enjoy the absence of thought that I get from climbing well within my ability. When in this state of mind the everyday
problems that clutter the mind cease to matter.
All that matters is an arbitrary arrangement of rock or plastic and the
possibly useless ability to scale the said rock or plastic. As much as I love the accomplishment in
climbing, I love how it calms my mind in the process and gives me insight to
more pressing problems.
