Ponderings

• August 26, 2024
• 3 weeks

What happened to play?

I don’t think I was a dreamer as a kid. It’s not that I had no aspirations, but rather saw infinite possibility. I didn’t latch onto one particular dream or accomplishment because there were too many to choose from. Instead, I just worked really hard at what I did. I worked hard at school, on the field hockey field, and in the climbing gym. Whatever I did, I just tried to do it well.

When I was very little, I had an obsession with Annie, the musical. I do recall wanting to be her, on stage, for a brief time. Once that impossible dream subsided, like a lot of kids, I thought I wanted to be a veterinarian “when I grew up.” Accompanying my dad to put down our golden retriever, Dixie, at age 12 quickly dispelled that idea too. I don’t remember having any career ideas in my teens, and I certainly wasn’t ready to declare a major when I applied to colleges. The reason I majored in psychology wasn’t because I wanted to be a psychologist, either; I just loved the classes and never felt like the work was real work. It was just fun. I wanted to spend my four years enjoying my education, not loathing it.

I recently realized the lack of dreaming in my youth when I went climbing in Rifle for the first time. Rifle is certainly one of the most renowned climbing areas in the United States, but possibly the world. As a child, I would leaf through the climbing magazines in the rock gym, seeing photos of Rifle and similar crags, waiting for a parent to pick me up. I would think wow, but I never thought, Wow, I want to go there. I want to climb there someday. It didn’t even occur to me that somehow, that could be a version of my life. But now I’ve lived in Colorado for 9 years and have not just climbed in Rifle, but a number of world-renowned climbing destinations.

Making it to Rifle wasn’t just fulfilling a would-be childhood dream. Making it to Rifle was a testament to the climbing expertise that I have so relentlessly pursued for the past 18 years. Rifle has practically no moderate-level climbs — the ones that do exist, as the guidebook says, are polished and uninspiring. To have a good time at Rifle, you have to be climbing at an expert level. Or be really good at accepting failure. Because even as an expert, you will fail at Rifle. Again and again and again.

For a while now, I’ve been stewing on this idea of expertise in adulthood. To me, the greatest joy of growing up has been finding passions and tenaciously seeking more information, more knowledgeability, and more experience around them.

While climbing has been part of my life since I was just 9 years old, many of my current passions have only developed over the last 8 years or so. Take running, for example. I barely had run more than a 5K before college. Then two years ago, I qualified for the Boston Marathon — I ran the Austin Marathon at a pace of 7:26 minutes per mile. That’s mind-boggling to me, still. Was that even me?

The joy of qualifying, however, wasn’t just crossing the finish line at a wicked-fast time (for me). It was all of the work I had put into it. I had chipped away at running races, learning how to train, fuel, and recover for several half marathons and two marathons prior to Austin. The desire to improve and optimize my running was insatiable, and still is. Now training for my second ultra marathon, I am so wholly fulfilled knowing how much more I have to learn. I am learning more about endurance running practically every day. And learning more about climbing every day. And learning more about myself every day.

---

I have lamented to several people that when I took AP Psychology in high school, I was taught that adulthood (as defined in developmental psych) is basically broken into two categories: work and love. It’s about what you do to make a living and who you spend your time with. But what happened to play? Play is so important in childhood, but it falls to the wayside as we age. But in my current state of being, play is all I have. I am unemployed and single. Does that make me less of an adult? (Maybe a little.) But there’s so much value in play for me because I am growing and developing passions that I never dreamt I would be skillful at. Passions that have taken me so many new places and taught me what I’m made of. Without play, I don’t know who I would be, what I would do.

---

My uncle Carey is nearly 72 years old, and he is an expert wind surfer. The best part? He started in his 50s. After years of traveling to Hood River, the US wind surfing mecca, he and my late aunt Debbie moved to Mosier, just 5 miles east, with a population of less than 500. He wind surfs every day that it’s warm enough and the wind is blowing hard enough; he skis Mt. Hood when it’s too cold to wind surf. I remember seeing a Facebook post of his last year of him in his full wet suit, smiling ear to ear, standing on the shore with his board.

He wrote: “Pretty late in the season to be windsurfing for me, but no snow so whatcha gonna do? Glad I went! NE wind 30-35, air and water temps both ~47 degrees. Toasty in the drysuit except for the hands.”

I showed several friends and family the post, because all I could think was: this is someone in the family who gets it. That the love for play can dispel everything else. Who cares if the conditions are poor? I want to push myself.

When I asked uncle Carey last year about how he got into wind surfing and what it means to him, he said, “This is the greatest part of my life. The fact that I’m out there with people decades younger than I am, holding my own … it’s incredible.”

Maybe I didn’t dare to dream a lot when I was a kid. But as an adult, the only thing I dream about is how I can keep playing for the rest of my life.

Ponderings

• July 21, 2024
• 2 months

So We Sailed on to the Sun

“A project is a route or boulder problem that’s at the cusp of your climbing limit. Professional climbers will have projects that they work on for years. They’ll have a route in say, France, that they’ll return to every year to try and send,” I explained to my brother on the phone on Friday. “So this route, The Sub, it’s our project. It’s a 5.12d. I don’t know how much you know about climbing ratings, but supposedly, if you can climb anything that’s 5.12, you’re in the top 10% of climbers. But if you can climb 5.13, you’re in the top 1% of climbers. I am trying to send 5.13a. But first, this 5.12d.”

I didn’t expect to become so fixated on a rock for 5 days straight, but it happened. On Wednesday, I had gone out climbing with my friends, Zach and Britt, in Castlewood Canyon. The state park is only a 45-minute drive, so it’s a nice local getaway. The rock is all conglomerate, meaning that within the face of the crag, there are lots of strange rocks jutting right out of the wall to use as hands and feet. It’s fun, funky, and exasperating all at the same time.

We spent most of the morning familiarizing ourselves with the rock type and the area. Zach put up a 5.10d with a burly start, called Nose Job, followed by a more straightforward, slabby 5.11a, Cobble Wobble. Now warmed up, Britt was jazzed on a 5.11c called The Beak. Immediately, it became apparent that The Beak was sketchy every way around — dangerous clips and potential falls, a spooky arete, and a seemingly impossible finish. Zach and I passed at even attempting it. Britt mercifully was able to complete it with a bit of cursing and lots of confusion.

Now what to do? Originally, Britt was interested in checking out a 5.13b called The Black Streak. He didn’t feel wedded to it, though, given the rising heat at the crag. That’s when I offered to check out The Sub. Queue a mini obsession.

I was the first to try The Sub, which meant I had the slightly-more-difficult task of hanging all of the quickdraws on the bolts, then clipping. I steadily made my way up the first few bolts on juggy holds but through pumpy moves. Then came a series of pockets to traverse, followed by a small fissure to pull down on with your left hand and a 3-finger pocket (stellar) for your right hand. At this point, you have to somewhat dynamically move out left, hips in, to a small knob that’s okay at best. It was this move that I fell the first time.

Pleased with my first go, I figured out the move, only to discover the real crux of the route: a dyno to a big, sloping rock sticking out of the wall. Classic conglomerate. Miraculously, I stuck this dyno on the first try, cutting feet (i.e. both feet came off the wall). It’s one of those moves that looks freaking sick, no matter who does it.

The ending of the route is doable, but exhausting. You grab an amazing in-cut crimp, basically do a split/drop-knee to clip, punch through a couple of weird-textured pockets, grab a small pinch-thing, and do a big right gaston before the finish. It is so cool. My imagination had been captured.

---

Zach gave the route a go with a few takes, followed by Britt, who fell just once. Hell, he could maybe send this thing today! Maybe I could, too.

I went back up but promptly blew the dyno. It still felt much easier than the first time, knowing the moves and having the draws hung. Britt went back up too, only to ALSO blow the dyno. Zach had to get back to the Springs to work, so Britt and I threw in the towel. But not before resolving to come back the following day.

---

Not even 24 hours later, Britt and I were back at The Sub and determined. We both went back up it to feel out all the moves again. I had written scrupulous notes about the route the day before and was accumulating more with both of our efforts. Still, the odds were not in our favor. The crag felt hotter and buggier than the previous day. Both of us had climbed multiple days in a row, our muscles fatigued. And the skin on our fingertips was withering. We both gave three valiant efforts, but neither of us could stick that dang dyno in sequence. We weren’t down, though — quite the opposite. We now had all the micro-beta to send this thing. We just needed better conditions.

---

Now it was Sunday. We would leave earlier this time to beat the heat. As I stepped out my door, I discovered it was raining. It’s not raining at Castlewood, I told myself. We’re going to send.

On my drive to Britt’s, a double rainbow crossed the sky. I decided it must be a sign from the climbing gods that today was our day. Anything that could be a sign, I took to be one.

We made our way to Castlewood Canyon for the 3rd time this week, which sounds like lunacy to me, but didn’t feel like lunacy. The sky cleared. The sun was out. When we arrived, the temperature was a perfect 60 degrees. Now we were anxious.

Back at the crag, we tried our best to warm up and get mentally locked in. Britt went up the route to hang the draws and remind himself of some moves. I then got on for send attempt #1.

The beginning, fine. The middle traverse, smooth-ish, though could’ve been executed better. When I got to the dyno, I told myself, go get it. And I did! The only problem was, I’d never gotten this far from the beginning — and was completely bewildered. I completely forgot what to do next, and after some flailing, fell. I wasn’t mad. I was already satisfied, just to have made this progress.

Britt got on again, and he too got mixed up. He nearly forgot about the three-finger pocket and actually laughed at himself on the wall. He flubbed the dyno in uncharacteristic fashion.

Take two for me: a similar start, a very wobbly push through the traverse, a dyno stick. I now knew what to do, but I had to stay calm and not lose energy. I couldn’t believe I was hanging onto the weird-textured pockets or the mini pinch, but I hit the gaston too low. I couldn’t recover and fell.

Britt’s try #3: flawless execution all the way to the dyno. He stuck the dyno for a half-second this time. But still, no.

We wanted this thing so badly and yet acknowledged how absurd it all was. We had no intentions of even trying this route on Wednesday, yet here we were, obsessed with all the minutiae of this face, so desperate to send it with no falls. We could both probably tell you every single foot and hand hold on this thing at this point, could visualize every movement. If not today, we would send this thing, dammit.

---

My third try. I had started to resent the tiring beginning moves, just wanting to cut to the chase. The traverse went the smoothest it ever has; I could feel this was it. Once I got the dyno, I forced my feet back on and grabbed the in-cut. I was trying to lock in the drop knee and my foot came off, but I recovered and willed myself onward. The last holds didn’t feel great, and I felt the pressure to nail the gaston this time. When my hand fell perfectly into place, I knew it was over. I had just climbed the hardest route of my life outdoors.

---

Britt sent it immediately after. When folks send something back to back like that, it’s called a send train (choo choo!). The limiting factor for him was always the dyno, whereas for me, it was those exhausting following moves. Needless to say, we were thrilled.

---

I’ve never had a project before. Ever. That may not seem significant, but for a climber of 18 years, it’s kind of odd. I’ve always just liked climbing outside. I prioritize trying lots of different routes, rather than sending every route cleanly. In the last year, motivated by strong friends like Britt, Zach, Eric, Maddie, Casey, and Ryan, I’ve been curious to see what I was really capable of. I determined that I’d try to send a 5.13a by the end of the year. But I still hadn’t sent a 5.12c or 5.12d — I had barely even tried either grade. Moreover, I hadn’t found a route that compelled me to keep coming back. I was searching for something that was just a touch out of reach but plausible. Something with variable style and technique, but also required you to be strong. Something like The Sub.

The Sub is named for a boulder at the crag face. When you look down from the top of the route, the boulder looks like the Beatles’ Yellow Submarine. Though I never saw this boulder from the top (I think I was too full of adrenaline), from the start, this felt like my route, in a way. The Yellow Submarine is tattooed to my foot. It holds a lot of symbolism for me. From the moment I tried The Sub, I vowed I’d come back until I sent it.

---

There is something to be said for obsessing over a route, or really anything as trivial, for that matter. Sure, a 5.12d at a state park crag doesn’t really mean anything — unless you make it so. What was so exciting to me about The Sub is that it wasn’t this detrimental, negative, toxic type of fixation. Instead, it was this truly compelling and thrilling fixation that reinvigorated my love to climb. I wasn’t beat up about not sending it all the previous tries. It just made me want to work harder — to be the best climber I could be.

---

Britt admitted that he’s got a bit of an obsessive personality, but he prefers to be that way. Because when it comes down to it, wouldn’t you rather care deeply about something — even something as silly as a route — than not care at all? I couldn’t agree more.

Ponderings

• June 30, 2024
• 3 months

Hope You’re Enjoying Your Adventure

Thursday, May 9 – 8:30 p.m.

I feel like a dumb girl and am completely OK with it.

I’ll explain.

Sometime back in March, I decided I would rent out my house for at least the month of May. I had already rented it out for March, and given my not-super-great salary, it was such a relief to have someone else cover my mortgage. I knew I’d be gone for most of May, so it seemed like a no-brainer. I started looking for renters.

I was contacted by a couple looking to rent in the Springs while they searched for a home. They were looking for a place for at least 6 months — that, I couldn’t do. I turned them down for a girl looking to rent from the end of May to August.

Many others contacted me. Contacted me with dates ranging from just the month of May to a full year. I tend to be a first-come, first-served type of person, so I didn’t heed them.

The girl ghosted me, while the couple re-approached me about renting for 3 months. Could I do three months? Maybe. I knew I’d be gone a lot in June and July, too — the whole goal of summer is to be out camping, climbing, running, and hiking every weekend. I could work anywhere in my home state with my remote job. And that’s fine by me — Colorado summer is dreamy.

Still, renting my place meant committing to “van life.” Could I live out of my car for 3 months? Sure I could. I lived out of Ryan’s car for 2 months last year. I just needed to outfit the Subie — make it sleep-able, get a good cooler and two-burner stove. Otherwise, I had all the ingredients.

I knew there were going to be snags. That was the biggest takeaway Ryan and I took from road tripping last year; you have to adapt. Don’t get too wedded to any one plan.

Well the first snag began day 1, this last Sunday. We were planning to head to San Luis to work and climb for two weeks. But the weather was looking crappy. We didn’t really want to drive to kind of nowhere just to not climb. We watched the weather all week, and it tormented us. One day it would look clear, 12 hours later, rainy again. We brainstormed other places to climb, but no matter where we looked, bad weather was imminent.

Now it was Thursday and I was restless. Restless, and increasingly feeling like I needed to separate myself from everything comfortable.

In my eyes, I’ve lost a lot of the independent spunk I used to have. Once a person who relished being alone, went to concerts and brew tours and events in solitude, felt confident taking solo trips, I’m now paralyzed more often than not by being alone. I love a single night to myself — to cook, do admin, play drums, watch Better Call Saul — but that’s my max. As soon as I encroach upon 2 days of solitude, I’m unreasonably lonely. I know I have so many friends to spend time with, family to call, but I start feeling trapped by my four walls. Suddenly, most activities done alone sound unappealing — and more so, sad. They didn’t use to be sad to me.

I don’t know if these feelings are necessarily bad. I think on the one hand, learning to enjoy and crave companionship has been a healthy change for me. As a college senior, I truly wondered if I could ever have a partner, since I was so fiercely independent. I had my own agenda all the time. A partner would mean sacrificing what I wanted to do, when I wanted to do it. I wouldn’t have all the control over my life. And that scared me. Simultaneously, it scared me that if I didn’t change, I’d end up so rigid and set in my ways that I’d be forever isolated. My biggest fear is and always will be ending up alone.

Perhaps by renting out my house, I thought that I could force myself out of the loneliness that the four walls created and find peace in the solitude of nature. I have plenty of people willing to lend a hand, take me in if I need. But I wanted to challenge myself. I wanted to find that independent spark that I had lost. I wanted to get lost so I could get found.

The weather was making it difficult, though. The warmest place I could think to go was Cañon City. And though it would be warm enough to camp, it was supposed to rain throughout the weekend too. I imagined myself, camping for the first time alone, just 40 minutes from friends with warm houses, feeling like an idiot. Cooking on my two burner in the rain, wondering what I had gotten myself into and why.

You have to adapt. I texted my family friend John and asked if anyone in his family was using their cabin in Fairplay. It was all mine, he replied happily.

The weather app said sunny and 34 degrees in Fairplay at 5 p.m. and onward. Worked for me. I just knew I needed to get away and start working on this solitude thing. This would be good for me. It was far enough away from the comfortable people and places that I would be forced to face my loneliness demon.

As I drove out of the Springs through Manitou and Woodland Park, the rain increased, fluctuating with snow. It would clear by Fairplay, I told myself. But it was unrelenting. By the time I reached Hartsel, the chance of sun in Fairplay sounded dubious at best, and sure enough, the snow kept coming down.

I turned onto the county road to the cabin and could see the snow was accumulating and there had been no plow through the roads yet. I soldiered on. I just had to make it to the cabin. Then all would be well.

As the road turned from pavement to dirt, my Subaru Impreza, Ogie, charged on fearlessly. I never have felt so simultaneously foolhardy and self-assured. Even though I knew I was driving myself to a potential snow-in, I felt right in the decision. Usually not much of a snow driver, I was confident driving the tricky switchback several miles in, as well as maintaining momentum up the last big hill. I arrived, the driveway too deep with snow to even turn into, feeling pleased with myself and so foolish.

Now I’m sitting in the cabin, a roaring wood burning stove behind me, with no idea when the road will be plowed. But nothing is wrong. I’m warm. I have food for days. I have water. And best of all, I have forced solitude.

I may be a young dumb girl who took the less-than-obvious choice multiple times in the last month, but I haven’t felt that stubbornly determined as I was behind the wheel, accelerating up a snow-covered hill, in a long, long time.

I am hoping that’s the first step in finding the lost piece of myself.

[The plow arrived at 3 p.m. the next day. If it weren’t for the bad service forcing me out to watch the Nuggets play-off game, I still would’ve stayed put.]

---

Saturday, June 29 – 12:30 p.m.

Well, it’s been over 50 days since I wrote that snowy tale, in a somewhat manic fashion. Do I feel independent again? Absolutely not. But do I feel anxiously attached to anything or anyone? Also no. I’ve grown, but I’m not there yet.

So much has happened between then and now. I traveled from the cabin to Buena Vista, Salida, and Durango. After catching up with college friends, I finally made it to San Luis with Ryan to camp and climb. A few days with my Colorado parents were followed by another magical, soul-healing bouldering trip to Joe’s Valley with dear friends. I reconnected with my awesome co-worker, Jason, for biking, a bougie dinner, and a donut quest in Denver, then flew to the East Coast for 5 days to see my cousin married on Cape Cod. Back in Colorado, I couch surfed on and off, even staying in my home for 5 days to cat sit for my renters (how weird is that?), with weekend trips to Boulder and Salida for summer festivals. I returned to the Springs to dog sit and run my first race in nearly a year, placing second woman and fifth overall. This last week, I circled back to Durango and spent a couple of days in Telluride, craving more college friend time. In the midst of all of this, my renters closed on a house and offered to move out at the end of June. To which I said: yes. I haven’t minded this vagabond lifestyle, but it feels like it’s time to simplify.

The one deterrent from moving back home was honestly a financial one. My contract job with a mapping company just ended on Friday, and with it, income for the foreseeable future. I was hopeful the company would hire me on full-time, after nearly 8 months of dedication and “going above and beyond,” but it wasn’t in the budget. Now I am left simultaneously more sure of myself than ever, having forced myself into independence again, as well as completely directionless. The truth is: I don’t know what I want to do. I don’t know when I will. And yes, having some folks cover my mortgage for another month would be financially advantageous, but a secure landing pad seems far more advantageous for me to figure out what the hell is next.

Honestly, I could see myself living nomadically somewhat endlessly. Countless times over the past couple of months, friends and family would reach out asking, “How is your trip going?” or saying, “Hope you’re enjoying your adventure!” In my eyes, though, the last two months were neither a trip nor an adventure. They were just life. I wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary for me, most days; I still got up, went for runs, worked 8 hours, climbed, went to social gatherings, etc. It’s funny to me that so many folks can’t imagine life being normal if I’m not living in a house full-time. Sure, it made life more challenging, but not fundamentally different. The new challenge will be returning to the four walls and seeing if I can make peace with them.

---

Now that I am back home, I can’t help but reflect on the past two months. Though they were full of moments of self-doubt, fear, frustration, loss, and unquantifiable tears, what stands out to me are all the moments of immeasurable joy. My friends supporting me when I sent my first V8 outdoors; laughing until my stomach hurt with my old roommate about something I no longer even remember; watching my cousin walking down the aisle, and later, my older brother tearing it up on the dancefloor; crossing the finish line to discover only one woman ahead of me. But I think the icing on the cake was Friday, hiking with my college friend, Nate.

We were on the most classic hike in Telluride, Bear Creek. The previous day, he and I had hiked up to Hope Lake with our friend Devan, through rain and hail. It fiercely poured on us an hour after the hike, too (we ran to the hot springs in pelting rain anyway). Well, all that accumulated rain had made the creek flow stronger than ever. At the top of Bear Creek is a massive waterfall, and Nate, having done this hike several times, said he’d never seen it look so powerful. Standing near the base of it, Nate started putting on his raincoat. He looked me dead in the eye and said, “I think we’re about to get soaked.”

“Sure, but I don’t have to hike closer to the falls.”

Nate shrugged, as if to say, your loss. Looking up at the falls, I felt foolish for even considering staying down below. I put on my jacket.

With each step higher, you could feel more spray on your skin. I saw Nate at the top, arms open wide as the falls bore relentlessly down the cliff. The wind and water blew our hoods and hats back, and we looked at each other and laughed, the water drenching us. What struck me was how the laughs were ones of pure delight. The kind of delight you hear when a child discovers something for the first time, like bubbles or butterflies. I felt so purely whole in that moment and couldn’t help but feel like I was forming a core memory.

I don’t know what the future for me holds, but I have to imagine that more moments of awe and delight will get me somewhere. I have to believe that continually getting lost will help me get found.

Ponderings

• April 27, 2024
• 5 months

Anyway, You Can Make that Call

The piano notes were unmistakable as I entered the liquor store. I froze in my tracks.

“Ryan, I can’t believe this. They’re playing some incredibly niche Paul McCartney in here. Like, 2005 Paul McCartney. It’s an album my dad always played — Chaos and Creation in the Backyard. See, this is why Weber is the best.”

I am incredibly fond of Weber Street Liquor. It’s the liquor store for my alma mater, Colorado College. Students frequent this place so often, when school starts back up in August, Weber hangs a banner out front that says “Welcome home, Tigers!” My roommate, Marta, and I were regulars during our college years. Recognizing that we knew virtually nothing about craft beer, we embarked on a beer “connoisseurship.” We’d build a mix-and-match 6-pack (affectionately dubbed a “mixy sixy”) with some arbitrary rule (e.g. select only beers in purple cans). Then we’d proceed to split each beer over the course of the week, rate them out of 5, and write up a review. I would tape a torn piece of scrap paper to the can with our summary, and Marta would plant a succulent in the can. The good old days.

I am fond of Weber Street Liquor, but saying I am just “fond” of Chaos and Creation is a gross understatement. I have countless memories of listening to it top to bottom in our white Suburban, my dad driving and my younger sister in the seat beside me. Back then, the two of us loved the song “English Tea.” As I grew older, I came to appreciate “Too Much Rain,” particularly when our family pets passed on. These days, I could extoll the virtues of every track, but I especially like “Anyway” — the song that was playing overhead in that moment.

Bemused, Ryan proceeded to the task at hand: making a “mixy-sixy” for our friend, Eric. I was dedicated to the task too, but still distracted. I had been thinking of this particular album just recently for a variety of reasons, and it felt like a sign that it appeared in such an improbable context.

We proceeded to the counter and to my delight, Marie was working. Marie knows me from the college days and the years after. Sadly, I live on the other side of town now and so rarely get to visit Weber. This was a treat.

“Marie, how are you? It is so good to see you,” I began. “And also … is it you who put on Chaos and Creation? I love this album. It’s like, the album of my childhood.”

Marie smiled. “It is! You know, I’ve really been into Paul McCartney lately, especially his older stuff. And I think this album is just his very best.”

I couldn’t have agreed more. “Anyway” was coming to an end and I noted how much I loved it, since it also transitions to a completely different, hard rock tune. We exchanged some more words about Paul — me, recommending his albums Memory Almost Full and Egypt Station, Marie, explaining her suspicions about the track “Vanity Fair” — while Ryan listened and smiled patiently.

We left the store and I was in such disbelief that the interaction had even occurred. “I feel like I’ve got to call my dad! But it’s 10 p.m. on the East Coast.”

“Call him anyway.” That’s always Ryan’s response.

After confirming over text that Steve was indeed awake, I rang him. “First off, I am totally OK. I just needed to tell you about something that just happened, in the moment.” I proceeded to recount the whole C&C/Weber episode with Marie to him, and he laughed approvingly. He launched into giving me some Paul tidbits (impersonating the Beatle’s voice, of course — even Ryan had to admit, it was pretty good). I tell people that Steve and I have imaginary conversations with Paul McCartney all the time, so it was nice to have someone actually bear witness. I had been having a pretty awesome day, but this was really the cherry on top.

“I guess there’s only one proper way for me to end this call,” my dad said. “And that’s: ‘How kind of you to think of me.'”

---

Prior to this random visit to Weber, I had been stewing about Chaos and Creation, and more broadly, the albums from my youth that I keep coming back to. What was it about them, exactly? I was perplexed by their timelessness, I think. The fact that they could resonate as strongly now as they did when I was a child — though for different reasons — kind of boggled my mind.

To this day, I will regularly play C&C on a long drive and find myself tearing up at a different song every time. I may have cried to “Too Much Rain” at age 12, but at age 27, I’ll find myself sobbing to “This Never Happened Before.” Paul’s lyrics and tunes hit me on such a deep emotional level, having been planted at such a young age. In 2005, I was just 9 years old. Like rock climbing, C&C has been a part of me for two-thirds of my life. I could have grown out of it, but quite the opposite has happened; I’ve grown increasingly into it.

---

I am a big album person in general. If I have a long car ride ahead, I will queue multiple albums based on my mood. When I recommend an album to someone, it’s only if I believe it to be top-to-bottom good. Obviously, C&C is one of them. So too is Billy Joel’s The Stranger, Ben Folds’ Rockin the Suburbs. Alternative rock albums from my teenage years, like Wiped Out! by The Neighbourhood, You Haunt Me by Sir Sly. In more recent years, X by the Driver Era, LP3 by Hippo Campus. Whenever I really don’t know what I want to listen to, though, I know I will find solace in Language and Perspective, the first full-length album by my favorite band, Bad Suns.

My affinity for Bad Suns is not unlike my affinity for Paul. I have seen them maybe 9 times in concert. I have one of their lyrics tattooed on my arm (it should be noted I also have a yellow submarine tattoo on my foot). I obsess over their interviews and am in their top 0.5% of listeners every year. To put it simply, I love them. I love Paul. And it’s ironic that love should be the common denominator.

When I think of both Chaos and Creation and Language and Perspective and why they have continually affected me, I’ve realized it’s precisely because they’re not necessarily about love. Chaos and Creation speaks to companionship and friendship quite a bit; Language and Perspective is highly existential, trying to get to the meaning of all of this. Until just the past couple of years, I freely admitted that I didn’t think I knew what love was. Which meant that a lot of music was a little lost on me — but never those two albums.

I don’t care much for genres like rap or country are because they’re unrelatable to me. I can still totally appreciate their lyricism or sound, but I won’t connect with them the same way due to their content. In contrast, I have always been able to appreciate both Paul’s and Bad Suns’ lyricism and sound in the same and newfound ways through the years. And it’s because their content speaks to life more broadly. Though both albums touch on aspects of love, they’re not all about love. So too has been the story of my life.

Now that I have some semblance of what capital L “love” is, songs hit me harder than they ever have. But nothing will compare to the way these original albums cut to the very core of my being. There are few songs like “Anyway” that can stop me dead in my tracks just hearing the piano chords in the liquor store. There are few bands that I would willingly go see 9 times. In that sense, perhaps I knew what love was all along.