Here I am- Blue Ridge Georgia

Blue. No, a blue gray with light flicks of white that appears to give this wintering tree trunk more character than the other dozens that are scattered through the valley. They really do look different than I remember thinking them to be. Many almost taking character of human form, others form layered geometric patterns as you gaze pass towards the horizon that can now only be seen because the leaves are just starting to bud. Not one cloud in the sky and the richness of the blue is a color that I would want to bottle and replicate inside on walls if I ever decide to own a home again. I actually decide to take my ear phones out of my ears and begin to listen. To actually listen. The hum of my Chris king hubs are only heard when I decide not to peddle. Leaves crunch beneath my wheels and squirrels become spooked by a girl flying down single track that winds up and down raccoon mountain in Chattanooga Tennessee……

This is as far as I got with this one,…. For the past couple months, all effort has been towards preparing for my comprehensive examinations and working. (My BLOGS have moved to the bottom of the priority of life)Three weeks ago, I received my questions that will require sixty pages of type to determine if 11 years of University can come together in a comprehensive form to 1) prove I know what I am “talking about” and 2) make me earn the letters P-H-D; for the second try around…….

Up until receiving my comprehensive examination questions three weeks ago; I was taking the time to live a balanced life that I have began to briefly mention in my writings. All this- every day- 6 days a week. Six hours of work- two hours of school-one hour of practicing Spanish- time for friends and family

(Mom took this of me at our pottery class- (see the I-Pod I am learning spanish)

and lastly ...feeding my spiritual side, and finding a balanced amount of exercise.

(NOT ON MY BICYCLE..FOR ONCE)

The last day of the week -a free day, to do what I feel. My new balance, up to this point, has also consisted of listening and learning about my BEING. Funny concept when I write it, but remembering to respond and not react; learning to really know when I am hungry, thirsty, tired; and place why I feel happy or sad. I guess I have been living thoughtfully. I have realized in this time of living thoughtfully, that living without old thought is just as important. Buddha says (I am paraphrasing here) that you cannot see yourself in moving water, but only in still water can you truly see your self-reflection. Not thinking that you know how something is; but truly letting go (still water) of the thoughts, old reflections, past labels and, and strive to feel and see for the first time again without the thoughts (or running water).

The past….. seven years ago, I was a new bride,and just moved cross-county to begin my dream. A dream of attending doctorate school, weekend bicycle rides in the Colorado Rocky Mountains, and beginning a wonderful marriage. However, life was more difficult than I expected; distracting me from why I was in Colorado for the first place. I wanted to be a college professor. Mostly.. so I could have a life that would allow me to make the money to live a comfortable life and have the time to raise a family without a complete stranger actually raising my one-day children….but I failed. It actually took one year of therapy to realize that practically being “encouraged” to not resume a second year of doctorate school; did not define me as a personal failure.
So now I am trying to remember this balance, but my mind is running to the past that is somehow triggering this unhealthy unbalanced dive. I realize what I am doing, moving away from the balance, and it is making me miserable. I have sunk back into the old habbits of Katelyn. In result I have dreadful back problems because I am obsessing about these tests, not wanting to fail again. This has resulted in me not being able to leave the computer nor take the time to even stretch or go to the bathroom. Some days I sit here for 10-12 hours writing, hunched backed, with this wrinkled look on my face. I feel guilty for taking time to write a BLOG, something I have come to love. I have also managed to lose my temper with my poor little grandma that is 2x bubblier than me on my bubbliest day ever. She actually hums and seems to float around the house, Grandma name is Cathy, but more like a chatty Cathy (now you know where I get it from). I have not practiced Spanish, I am not able to clear my mind and focus on one thing, I am task conquering, I sense a slight panic buzzing in my mind, nor have I laughed very much.

So as I write this- I remember a few special days recently where the panic subsided..free of all anxiety and fear…
A Nashville Urban Cycling Scavenger Hunt-and being silly as we searched fro 30 location around my city

Having nothing better to do in Rural Tennessee than play on tractors with my best gal Sarah

Finding Little people while mountain biking with my best buddy Mark

and Now I am having the most amazing view as I look up from taking my examinations..

I am a guest at my friend Van's riveside cabin in Blue Ridge Georgia where I write, ride, and remember still water as I am reminded by the sounds of the running river.

My anxiety is subsiding becuase now I remember the new katelyn..

e

My Hands, Suriana, Spain and Nashville, Tennessee

Hands, my hands; they looked like my legs after I have failed to stay “rubber side down” on my mountain bike ride. I was missing skin from my fingertips and the calices previously formed from gripping my bicycle handlebars seemed a little worn down from three days of contact with Conglomerate rock. Little cuts…I did not even notice until the scabs formed. As I bent my fingers to grip anything, they were unusually stiff. My fingernails, or lack thereof, had dirt caked underneath, and it seems my only hope was a manicure; if I were to spend money on these types of things these days. I kept looking down at these hands, they looked different than before; they took me to a familiar place within myself, reminded me of something I just recently learned about myself. As I reflect back as I write this today, I did not realize it at this time. Then… I looked down at my hands and was reminded of three wonderful days in Siurana located in Terragona, Senders de Cornudella, Spain.

I did not even know of this place. I guess if my experience with rock climbing over the past 8 yrs consisted more than sporadic sport climbing or sessions at the climbing gym; I would have been more involved with the sport to know how special this place is…

I guess it is better this way because I had no expectations really when Ruben said we were going to go climb about 1.5 hrs from his home in Montserratt. “Perfect”, he said as he described his “set-up”.

Suriana is a place where Muslim castles (one of Catalunya's last to fall to the Christians during the 12th-century's religious wars) overlook gorge-side cliffs that bottom to the Panta de Siurana, or the dam-created lake. The old village of Suriana looks down a deep gorge that is sliced by the Siurana River, a tributary of Spain's great Rio Ebro.

Rich with history of the past, the present Suriana is a sport climbers heaven.

(the famous La Rambla 9a+"britich tech scale")

With over 700 sport routes http://www.rockclimbing.com/routes/Europe/Spain/Catalunya/Siurana/ beginners like myself and the more advance like Ruben could find there self never touching the same route twice.

Ruben and two other friends have a camper

that permanently stays at a campground that can be usually populated by climbers, armatures and the famous from all over the world. http://campingsiurana.com/toni_eng.html

Showers-internet-heat-a real bed-restaurant with really good food; a better “homey” setup than climbing at San Bennet in Montserratt. I prefer to sleep outside on the dirt floor in the summer time, not winter; and showers are nice after a few days.

My Hands, I look down at my hands ….. The red fingernail polish has chipped away. By looking at them, you would of never thought I spent a hour on them yesterday. Only 3 weeks ago they had spanish soil that was caked underneath the nails. More skin is missing from my fingers from the textured plastic holds that have become my nighttime workout. My arms ache and my veins rise to the surface to give an appearance of streaking blue down my forearms.

In this time, my city in this time is rainy and cold….

Bicycles in the wet and cold are not as fun. I need to keep active!!!

Besides, my two best gal pals that I usually ride bikes with- also climb and frequent the indoor climbing gym. We come to climb-talk-gossip- I call it Ruben boot camp-practice spanish and climbing.

Sarah and I actually practice Spanish while we talk about all kinds of things…..

The same for Michelle and I..without the Spanish talking…we talk about everyday things and sometimes deeper topics, thoughts, and reflections, are expressed as we dangle from the roof.

This is where I realized how my hands took me to a familiar place within myself a few weeks ago in Spain. Unknowingly at the time, they reminded me of something I just recently learned about myself. Climbing with my hands is teaching me what I have been trying to practice in my personal life. For me, unlike mountain biking, kayaking, snowboarding, and climbing is about “responding” not “reacting”. For me these sports come naturally without thinking, I follow my instinct-fast-adrenalin-my mind is present but then at the same time absent, and tell you the truth most of the time I am out of control and can sometimes be pretty dangerous to myself and others. I “react” or leave my head out of it-emotional.

Climbing for me is about finding a calculated balance-patience- reaching the top not by just giving all your power to the effort- thinking ahead and having a present mind-it is about being so in tune with your body that you can tell your brain to use more of your legs than more than your arms- something that goes against all my nature.

I can tell you that I am not a good climber-it does not come natural to me, and this is why I love it. Just as in life, nor am I good about responding or using my head- I react. However, with time, patience, and practice; I hope to find myself being a better climber, and going through life responding not reacting in most situations.

So as I type this, I can barely bend my fingers to reach the bottom row of keys, I look down at my chaliced hands, and am thankful that little things in life like chipped fingernail polish, missing skin,remind me of little life’s lessons.

As always,

Amor

Meet the Parents, and not the Fockers. Aragon Region, Spain

When all was said and done, Ruben looked at me and said, “You know I usually do not take friends to the house of my family”.

Now that I think about it, how a stranger (me) was welcomed into their home-both of his grandparents home-his mothers boyfriends home- and last but not least, the home of his mother….. it did not seem to be a normal occurrence- to have Ruben bring company home. The preparation of multiple Spanish feasts, their attentiveness to make me feel welcome even though I did not speak their language, how it seemed they knew all about me, they knew what to ask in the minimal english spoken in the five days Ruben took me 3 hrs west of Barcelona to see his land, where he was raised, in the land of Aragon, down the mountain to the high desert plains, to his home.

I can tell you that I was kinda nervous. I usually do not get like this, I am usually pretty confident that if I just am myself..friendly, approachable, attentive then things would go smoothly- a comfort will be found. However, me not speaking Spanish very well and the family of Ruben not speaking English, kinda makes things difficult or at least interesting and comical at times.

Our first stop was Ruben’s Mother’s parents home in Luna, a little village north of Zarragoza, the city where his mother lives and where Ruben was raised.

As I enter the newly constructed village two story home, I am welcomed with smiles from his grandmother and grandfather.

The grandmother instantly takes me to see her home, all of her pictures. Speaking only in Spanish and French, she takes me to every room, shows me all her pictures- she is so proud of her family and this becomes more evident at dinner as we eat and she keeps looking at Ruben, with all smiles, and keeps telling him what a good man he is. I become tickled, and very impressed when I learn that Ruben’s grandfather was a shoe designer. I am taken to the cabinet that displays the models of mini shoes, 2 models for each season, at one time were used to showcase the design, and if chosen for the line, were made into normal scale shoes. Of course I had to get pictures.

Next stop, Grandparents home number two where I go to meet his grandparents, father, and little brother. I am told they farm.

Instantly I visioned vast lands, surrounding a stone Spanish style home with barns and farm equipment scattered throughout the land. You know similar to the us…. but not a stone home but wood. We arrive to the village,

pass a village washtub that still is used to wash clothes, and then approach a home in the village.

I soon observe that this is typical as I see the first level of the home is actually the barn/garage/wine cellar/and place where produce is kept and soap is made.

I instantly think my father would envy all the room, as I see how mush space there is for john deer tractors and farm trucks. It seems the Spanish are not into urban sprawl and keep to living in the villages. You enter the home by scaling steps to the second level where you can get a glimps of the amazing garden

where Rubens father will make the most amazing and biggest Paella that I have ever seen,

and where Ruben and I will do yoga one afternoon. His family welcomes me. I get to meet his little brother and his grandmother, just as his other grandmother, continues to feed me the most amazing food, and yes I ate meat- pig-cow-rabbit. You see I do not think I could bare not to eat either of his grandmother’s food that they spent hours preparing. To sum things up, if I cannot speak their language, the least I can do is eat their food. So I spent a few days being forced fed by the Spanish elderly, no worries I tell myself… it is nothing a few more hours on the bike will not fix.

I say, last but not least, when I begin to think of Ruben’s mother. I kick myself now because I do not have one picture of her. I had only one evening to visit and we spent this time visiting. I came with gifts, chocolate (Ruben told me her favorite) that my mother made and a framed picture of her son. What mother would not like that? The evening was perfect. She is learning English and I am learning Spanish. I think we did pretty well, and if we had problems we called for Ruben to translate. Sylvia, a very beautiful woman, a traditional Spanish beauty, a young mother that loves her only son very much. As we sit in the living room, I since a familiarity about her. I cannot place it initially or really describe it, but I can say a comfort found me. I begin to think and realize she reminds me of my mother, and the relationship I have with my mother. How she looks and relates to her son, a mother, but then best friend. The evening goes by fast and the morning approaches even faster. We must return to Barcelona for Ruben to go to work and a s we leave I found that Ruben's mother left present for me.. a beautiful necklace.

Phone calls follow our visit, and I see a smile appear on Ruben’s face. He looks at me and says, “I passed the test”; then he giggles. It seems to win over the grandmothers of Ruben, all you have to do is help with the dishes and act like you know what they are talking about when they speak in Spanish and French.

A unplanned suprise. San Juan Pena mountain 4 hours, 900m

I can honestly say that I was not too upset to find the Perenaos Mountains with lack of snow. Well..there was enough snow to make it absolutely beautiful; but not enough to justify paying 100 euros for a lift ticket and snow board rental for manufactured snow.
We had a back up plan…. bicycles- mountains-switchbacks-13^th century churches-and road side snack breaks on a bicycle ride. On borrowed heavy steal mountain bikes with flat peddles, no suspension, and the biggest seat that my rear has felt in a long time; we left Amador’s village later in the afternoon than we planned.

We head to “make sport” or ride, not necessarily up a mountain, but in this land you really have no choice. The Perenaos mountains boarders France, surprisingly the foliage in this region feels like the Appalachian Mountains in the south US.

Still green even in January, a light dusting of snow melts to make the roads slippery and the green of the land shimmer. Streams and rivers are flowing with snowmelt from the mountains above.

It is just cold enough that I wear gloves; yet warm enough that I do not need a jacket as we start our 900 meter climb up to the top of San Juan Pena mountain. The Spanish sun shines and brings a light pink color to my pale cheeks. After 45 minutes of climbing, we approach the most amazing monastery in the rock. San Juan Pena monastery makes for a wonderful place to rest and get another history lesson.

13^th century, I cannot even comprehend how old this is. Constructed in traditional Romanic style, it is far different from the Moorish architecture that is common in the lands situated just south.

We are in the land of Aragon, the region just left of Catalonia, the region where Ruben now lives; has a different language, the people speak with an escalating infection of tone at the end of phrases, and in the past was home to the Catholics, Jews, and Arabic people. You see the influence of these cultures when you begin to look; even the food is different. I hear stories of Ruben as a child, visiting Amador in the village; this land is where he found his love of the mountains.

As we approach another monastery, after another 45 minutes of climbing, we decide to chance running out of light so we can continue to the top.

I find myself on beautiful roads that overlook the most amazing horizon. I look down to see the monastery that we just passed.

It looks so small and gives me prospective, just how much we have climbed on our bicycles. We continue to climb until the road stops. Having mountain bikes, we can continue up to the very top as we find a dirt trail that lines the ridge

.

We only have a brief moment to catch our breaths and turn 360 degrees to see all the mountains before we must return and head down the mountain because we are running out of sunlight. Four hours, and 900 meters of climbing, we return back to the village a little score, cold, and tired as the sun sets…and it was a perfect day.

Amore,

All possibilities....Montserratt and Santa Cicillia Spain

Rose marry bushes- Imagine looking out to this. Perfectly formed rock formations in the distance are rich brown in contrast to the blue of the sky.
Climbers can be seen in the distance dangling-gripping like insects on a massive form.. El Ferro, rock on the sunny south face of Montserratt in Spain was my playground that afternoon and we walk to reach the rock.......

As usual Ruben and I were chatting about all kinds of stuff as he patiently continued my climbing lesson that had begun 8 months ago. I was trying to explain the American reality TV show “The Amazing Race”. Teams of friends or lovers race around the world to reach the goal of winning one million dollars. Cameras are there, so we Americans can sit on our couches and watch the dynamics of relationships and maybe get a little culture in. None of you, well besides Ruben’s family and friends, have seen our dynamic when we are together; which I think would make great television. Our language barrier, how we relate, solve problems is pure comedy at times, and in this… we manage to get along perfectly. After much confusion about the concept of this type of American prime time entertainment, I finally jokingly communicate effectively to Ruben how fun it would be to do this show. He looks at me, in all seriousness and says, “I do not like television”. I said, “yes I know, but to win a million dollars to travel and see the world…would be worth it”. “I do not need money…and besides we can sell cheese for money, he said with a big grin”. (I laugh because his comment follows a conversation we had earlier in a Milan grocery store in Italy. I was filling the grocery basket with good cheese to bring home to you..I mean the cheese from Italian sheep, goats and cows…..the same cheese that you would pay 5 or 6 times more in the American store. I converted the euro to dollar and shared with Ruben about the vast difference in price.)

After our conversation I had a brief moment where I thought about this..the thought of exploiting yourself to get rich fast. A few days later, I had another brief moment where I though about “our tendency” to get things done fast.

The way Amador, Ruben’s mother’s boyfriend, has lived part of his life is unfathomable to me. The first thing that came out of my mouth was, “I wish my mother could see this”. A stone house, in a mountain village,Santa Cicillia ,

nestled in the outskirts of the Perenaos Mountains in Northern Spain;
was something that could be showcased in any American Home decorating magazine.

As you walk down the narrow streets, you feel old cobble stones underneath your feet.. Stone walls support three stories of modern day homes or street level bakeries, fruit markets, or café’with apartments above. Solid wood doors weighing hundreds of pounds are fashioned with iron rods for support. Behind larger wood door openings, modern day automobiles can be found; however, in the past served as the place for farm animals.

As we approach the house of Amador, Ruben continues with telling me the history of his land, people, and family. To give me a little time perspective; he shares with me the French troops of Napoleon house their horses in the ground level of Amador’s house. Ruben approaches a wood stable door, jokingly uses the old iron door knocker to let Amador know we have arrived. As I am received with a smile and 2 kisses, one on each cheek, my eyes are drawn in-word to what I see. A stone cobble room, houses decorative antiques; even an old bicycle.

I can imagine the livestock living here, but this day it serves as the garage. I climb the wood stairs in a stairwell with lively colored paint. I enter into the most amazing kitchen, a Spanish kitchen, complete with pig leg.

Antique furniture and light fixtures are mixed with modern day appliances and bright paint colors. The living room and dining area also showcases the new and old. A grand stone fireplace is used to warm the house and cook the meat for dinner. I look up to see old wood beams that support the floor of four bedrooms, second living area, and garden roof top terrace. Tasteful art, antique ski equipment

,

and every adorable nick-knack makes this house a home. Opera music, Amador’s favorite, plays as I continue to see each room-of each one of the four floors. The amazing craftsmanship of this house, the beauty of every detail becomes even more special when I learn that this home took over 20 years to build. No bank, no mortgage, no construction crew with a deadline, and no hired decorator. This man with his family paid for four stonewalls. All inside and above had to be rebuilt. Over 20 years from working in the mountains

taking money from each paycheck, favors from friends, presents from relatives made Armador his home. Little by little, each year something new-something built. First the roof, then the floors, lights, plumbing, walls, wood floors, hand made doors, and all in this house-not fast-not now-no instant-but in time, with patience, a masterpiece was formed.

I am taken back with this. The mentality one must have to live a patient life, not an instant life, not about what you have; but how you get there. Different way of life, maybe better for some, not possible for others; however this has opened my eyes to all possibilities nonetheless……

Amore,
Katelyn