As I sipped coffee at sunrise, Castle Rock loomed over the simple Sedona resort, the light hitting the massive structure at different angles. At first the edifice showed me an angry face, complete with furrowed brows and a downcast scowl. Suddenly, it transformed into a castle stronghold. Then in the instant it took me to greet a fellow guest out on her early morning hike, Castle Rock had become a series of buttresses.
That’s the magic of Sedona. It never shows you the same thing twice.
As I considered the seeming implacability of Castle Rock, for some inexplicable reason I thought of Alex Honnold. A fan of the sport of rock climbing, I have followed his career from when he was 23 until his most recent stunning accomplishment, a free solo climb of El Capitan at Yosemite National Park. I knew if Alex were here, looking at Castle Rock, he would not see just a majestic rock. He would certainly not be content to look at it with awe as I was doing this early morning.
Alex would see untapped potential. A tabula rasa. A rock face to be scrambled on and conquered. A series of footholds, handholds, and crevasses. Small indentations in the rock that would allow him to scale it, and ultimately summit.
Probably in ten minutes.
(Alex’s friends see him staring intently at the rock.
“No, Alex. You’d better not.”
AH: “I have to.”
“Don’t.”
He pulls on his climbing shoes and begins to run through the desert brush, yelling back at them.
“I have to. I’ll be back before you’re out of the shower.”)
I envy him. I envy all rock climbers. They are a different breed. They drive around, show up to these rocks with some rope and carabiners, in some cases nothing, and just scale stuff. To hold onto a smooth rock by one finger and dangle hundreds, sometimes thousands of feet in mid-air reliant only on their own body weight defies everything that is natural.
But it’s what they do. It’s what they love. It’s what makes sense to them.
It’s their tabula rasa.
We all create in our own ways, don’t we? Possess the ability to make something out of nothing? To see space, air, an object or an odd assortment of miscellaneous objects and put them together into a creation that makes sense? To gaze upon something and see what it can do, what it can look like, what purpose it can serve?
Like waves. When I look at a wave, I see water. But my sons see undulations, tubes, crests and lips, and how they can potentially use the movement of that wave, the energy of it, to glide effortlessly over it and through it on their surfboards. If you’ve ever seen a surfer checking the waves before a session, you will notice they are quiet. They are intent. They are studying. So that once they are on their boards in the water, they already know what that wave will do before it does it, and how they can react to it.
This is their own individual brand of art. Their creation.
A professional golfer doesn’t just see grass. He sees undulations in the course, slopes and grades. He sees what to do with his body, his hips and his wrist to make his club hit the ball in such a way that it avoids that sand, that copse of trees, that water hazard, in order to make it into that little hole in four shots. That’s his art.
This goes for any artist. You may see a pile of roots, powders and strange vegetables, while chefs see heat, pounding and reduction, eventually a stew. You see an empty space in a house, while an interior designer sees color, and angles and lighting necessary to create the perfect living space.
Trainers create elite athletes from body movement and weight training. Fashion designers create a beautiful dress from five yards of silk. Teachers create challenging and charismatic lessons out of arcane and basic knowledge. Builders use tools and drills and nails to build mansions. Parents transform tiny helpless infants into walking, thinking prescient adults.
My tabula rasa is creating stories out of everyday life. You see an empty piece of paper, I see a story. My tools are a buttery-soft journal, the small red notebook I carry everywhere, an extra-fine tipped pen and a new document opened in Microsoft Word.
My tabula rasa is also silence. Observation. Anticipation. Confrontation. A five-minute exchange at a coffee shop. A laugh shared with a friend. A crackling fire. The excitement at the thought of seeing someone I love. A mountain cathedral. A painting by Andrew Wyeth. The dignity of an old dog, the laughter of a small child. A sunrise or a sunset. The ocean, the mountains, the desert.
The world.
What is your tabula rasa?
Whatever it is, feel gratitude that you can wake up fresh every day to a clean slate and practice your art. Whatever is it. Because the art that you create is unique, and no one can see it, build it, or practice it quite like you.
Here’s to scaling rocks the best way we can. Every day.
