Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Loving Life

So here we are at the end of time.... again. I am writing this blog post in anticipation of the end of the world: December 21, 2012.

In my lifetime I have survived three official "End of Time" events and I am sure, many unofficial calls that I obviously didn't pay much attention to until last year when a man (Harold Camping?) predicted the end May 22, 2011, but the end failed to appear. This was his second such prediction. I feel sad that he isn't very good at predicting and hope he secures other work, and yet find myself quite happy he was wrong.

This predicting of the end of the world must be a lot like the housing market; just when you think it can't go any lower... boom, there it is. Another end of the world.

As I mentioned earlier, I have survived three doomsdays, hopefully four after the 21st, and feel the need to talk about these false starts or more accurately, false stops stopping.

March 10, 1982 - The Jupiter Effect

I must admit, at the time this prediction came to light, I was busy being a newlywed and a college student and I remember being horribly uninformed while I attended college. Once on a visit home, we heard Gerard's younger brother talking about a war going on and we both said "what war?" We had no idea Argentina and England were warring over the Falkland Islands for 74 days. After that embarrassing incident, I became addicted to CNN Headline News.

On March 10th, my husband and I celebrated our 5 month anniversary (we didn't really celebrate our monthly anniversaries because we were busy getting an education ;). Anyway... The Jupiter Effect is the rare instance when all the planets end up on the same side of the sun. This event would then cause catastrophic natural disasters which would put an end to all the goings on here on earth.

The Falklands Conflict began on Friday, April 2, 1982. I don't know for sure but maybe someone was feeling a little pissy about selling his Grateful Dead collectibles so he could go on a drinking binge to drown out the end and woke up April 1st feeling like a fool. This might get him to thinking, "I'm going to get the Falklands back!" Like the end of the world, wars don't always make sense.

January 1, 2000 - Y2k

Yes, I ask myself this question often. Why K2? And then I remember that was the name for the ski company on Vashon Island and I go to wondering how many people commute on the ferry from the Seattle area to Vashon...  and are they still in business... and are there skiing opportunities on K2... Hi. My name is Darcy Cline and I am a research addict. I LOVE RESEARCH!

Okay, settle, settle. Y2k was a dumb theory that when all the clocks turned over to 2000, it would all go wrong because the sad guy setting up computer time blah blah blah was working under a little black cloud and didn't see a future, so he set all the timers to end at 1999. (I didn't research this, but I think it went just like I said.)

So everyone, (scientists and everybody with math like calculus and triggermonetary believed this?) expected that stuff would blow up and the world would end like one giant New Years Eve celebration gone awry, where Dick Clark's famous ball falls off and rolls around Times Square killing all people everywhere. I should write horror.

Nothing happened. Moving on... (85% of the 200 employees commuted from Seattle area, K2 moved manufacturing from Vashon Island to China in 2001, closest ski resort is 175 miles away from K2)

June 6, 2006 - The Antichrist Returns

Now the return of the Antichrist is something to fear. I know this. Two months ago I renewed my AAA membership and the representative issued me a number that had 666 in the middle of it and I thought that was just asking for roadside disasters. I asked if we could renew with our old membership number and she assured me I had to make due with the new evil number. (AAA, 666 - this is just asking for bad juju.)

A week later the cards show up and I refused to hand them to my kids and say "happy driving... oh, and beware the Antichrist!" I put them all back in the envelope and let them sit on the counter while I stewed about the evil number. A day or so later, a representative from AAA called and asked how our service was upon renewal. She was an angel, I tell you.  I explained my misgivings over the stupid number on the card and she was the all-helpful, smile-voiced angel of mercy who eliminated the evil number and reinstated our old membership with a flap of her snowy white wings. Good wins out over evil.

Having just said that, I can't remember this date coming or going. That could be due to the fact that during that time I was anemic and can't remember many things because my blood wasn't strong enough to send oxygen to my brain. George W. Bush was president then... it's best we put this behind us.

Well, here I am at the almost end. We have one more end of time prediction to contemplate. (Yes, I couldn't resist publishing this on 12/12/12 at 12:12 am. I am still here for those who thought it would happen now.)

December 21, 2012 - End of the Mayan Calendar

A Beautiful Mayan Calendar - I might have ended time way
sooner than the Mayans if I had to draw up one of these.
I have less faith in this prediction simply because an ancient culture failed to buy a new calendar for the next 5000 years. Yes, I do believe it was lack of foresight on their part but we have to consider they might not have known what they were doing, hence their mysterious cultural and environmental collapse around AD 900-ish.

Granted, we haven't lived through this new and current end, but I have faith and hope that we will be running around from December 22nd to the 24th, cursing the doomsayers, buying all those gifts we didn't buy when Christmas was getting hijacked by the hourglass, and overjoyed at finally having a valid reason for postponing the shopping.

I am happy to report, we have all our Christmas shopping done for the first time in... probably ever and we paid cash for everything. GO US! I still have gifts to make and that cannot be postponed. The future is coming and I am looking forward to celebrating the holidays with my family as I wish hope and joy to  all of you to experience each day as the world continues to spin.


My Calendar Design for Winter Quarter - Simple
P.S. 3797 is suspected as being another end of time date and I really don't have much interest in this date since I plan on living less than 150 years... that gives me about 98 years which would put me in La La Land or 2110, which is probably a number freak's next special date.

Nostradamus has predicted many things and is known as a prophet and philosopher. His prophecies stop abruptly at 3797. Well now that could mean many things... (If I stop chewing gum... does that signify I stopped abruptly or with great meaning?) I suspect it was a bit like the Mayan calendar... maybe he retired to write romance novels and knit scarves... just saying.

If you are interested in more research, here is an interesting website that has listed the most number of End Predictions I have seen. Get past the bad graphics and see a load of information that is very interesting, indeed:

Please take a moment to read Joanne's story in my previous post, A Kinder Kidney.

Saturday, December 1, 2012

A Kinder Kidney

I wonder what it would be like to wait for someone to die, so I could live.  And to possess the knowledge that someone else waiting on the list, was also wishing, holding their breath... and in a better place in line. I could see this battle waging in my head in which I let slip a little thought or prayer to God or the Universe that the person ahead of me not make a good match. The idea that wishing for someone's misfortune, even for a split second, when I finally pay off a college loan, or after reaching a goal, or maybe while I am playing with a future grandchild and I send off a great need and yearning to be spared so I would have a chance to see this child grow, would cause a mountain of guilt in me.

My mom's best friend, Joanne, lives with this uncertainty every day. She has been on a kidney transplant waiting list for 3 years. She tells me "the wait can take up to six years... if you are lucky enough to survive until then."

Joanne's friends and family are working hard to bring awareness about becoming a live donor, because the transplant list is long and odds of surviving a transplant are higher with a live donor kidney, as opposed to waiting for a deceased donor organ.  I think most people might associate the phrase 'organ donation' with organs from someone who has just passed away. I know I did.

I have been an organ donor since I realized I could make that choice in the event of my untimely death. I have the little heart on my driver's license. I like having it there, but it wasn't the department of licensing that made me aware of that option. It was my friend and coworker.

Ruth was the first person I had ever met who was on the kidney donor registry, as a live donor. She had no family members that needed a kidney. A friend hadn't convinced her to do it. She just did it because she wanted to help someone live. I think this the best gift... the unconditional gift of life.

And because I love statistics and research, I did a little digging:

According to the National Kidney Foundation (NKF) 
as of August 31, 2012:

There are currently 115,193 people waiting for lifesaving organ transplants in the U.S.
Of these, 93,148 await kidney transplants.
Last year, 16,812 kidney transplants took place in the U.S. Of these, 11,043 kidney transplants came from deceased donors and 5,769 came from living donors.

Joanne Prokop 2010
        My mom's friend Joanne Prokop has Polycystic Kidney Disease (PKD). She was diagnosed with PKD at the age of 30, after the birth of her third child. She was having trouble controlling her blood pressure so her doctor ordered an ultrasound, which confirmed the diagnosis.

At that time, her doctor advised living a healthy life. Joanne complied, taking medication and following the doctor's advice, managing her illness, but she has been unable to stop the progression of the disease.

Despite her commitment to healthy living, Joanne has progressed into stage 4 kidney disease.  Her kidneys are no longer functioning properly and are estimated to weigh about 20 pounds each.

"A normal kidney is the size of a human fist and weighs about a third of a pound. However, with the presence of PKD, cysts develop in both kidneys. When many cysts develop, the kidneys can increase in both size and weight, sometimes weighing many pounds each.  There may be just a few cysts or many, and the cysts may range in size from a pinhead to the size of a grapefruit." - PKD Foundation.

At 54 years of age, her disease is catching up with her, which is why she is eager to get the information out to as many people as possible, because as more donors step forward, more lives will be saved.

I am sure there are hundreds of thousands of family and friends of the people on the transplant waiting list that feel the same way I do. They want their loved ones to live.

Joanne is a wonderful person and I know I don't want to think of what life would be like without her, but we can't help worry.

In writing this post, I don't expect everyone to jump up and come to the rescue... although that would be nice. I feel compelled to do something. I can't donate my kidney because of health issues, but I can write a blog and put a thought out there and bring more awareness to live organ donation.

While talking to my best friend about this, she informed me that she and her daughter were talking about my upcoming blog topic and now her daughter is very interested in the idea of being a kidney donor. I love it that she is thinking about it! My blog caused two people to talk about it and then maybe one of them talked to their husband and maybe he talked to someone else about what his wife was considering.

I believe it doesn't matter how we help, what matters is that we help... in any way that makes sense to each of us.

So if you are thinking about this and about people like Joanne, I am happy.

And because I love research, here are more statistics, as daunting as they are to read, I think it is important to be informed.

According to the NFK, on average:
Nearly 3,000 new patients are added to the kidney waiting list each month.
13 people die each day while waiting for a life-saving transplant
Every 10 minutes someone is added to the transplant list
Last year, 4,903 patients died while waiting for a kidney transplant.
Acceptable organ donors can range in age from newborn to 65 years or more.

I know this doesn't have a great deal to do with art, but it has everything to do with life.

For information about kidney disease, visit these informative organizations:

The program Joanne is enrolled in:
Virginia Mason Hospital & Medical Center, Seattle | Seattle's Top Doctors are at Virginia Mason

For information about becoming a donor:

These are just a few of links available to find information. Google "kidney disease" to find a wealth of information about PKD and "becoming an organ donor" to access organ donor programs.

Sunday, October 14, 2012

Jumping Jimmy Johns! Is it Juxtapositional Justification or Just Junk?

I have a thing about lining objects up. I feel an intense compulsion to place objects on my desk, paper, the kitchen counter, the wall... so they create an imaginary line that leads smoothly towards items nearby. Having intersecting lines from several directions is perfectly allowable in this mental game I play, as long as the objects are perpendicular to each other.

But it isn't so easily discerned. Sometimes these items can be skewed, however, this skew must have a reason or logical placement. Remember, all lines from point a to point b must serve a purpose. I am required to have a reason for this skew. This skewed, anti-perpendicular object must also connect on an imaginary line to some other anchor in the setting.

I suppose this compulsion is my own West Coast, home-grown, version of Feng Shui. Now Feng Shui is a beautiful and complicated system of using the Tao of Heaven and Earth to improve life. I am simplifying this terribly so I will call my own version "Fan Shoe."

Fan because I do love film and television and I am a fan, but can behave myself in the presence of celebrities. (I did see Elvis in concert at the Coliseum in 1976 and not once did I scream out "I LOVE YOU! Also that same year, Danny Kaye touched my face and I didn't dissolve into an incoherent puddle. More recent testimony had me wiping Eddie Vetter's... saliva? off with a napkin as he was spitting on everyone during a performance at the ShowBox in Seattle. I am happy to report the napkin ended up in the trash, not on Ebay.)

And Shoe, well, because I actually want to love shoes, however, I don't have a wardrobe that would complement a great pair of shoes, so you see, old clothes/new shoes is not Fan Shoe in my world. Old clothes/old shoes is a straight, uncluttered line from point a to point b. Capice?

After Gerard and I got married, we moved to Ellensburg, Washington to go to school at Central. We rented a little house on a cattle ranch and had the full use of a tethered goat to mow the lawn.  That was interesting and a story for another day. What interests me here and now about that little farmhouse, was the shed out back.  It was shifted just a few feet away from being perfectly parallel to the house.

It drove me crazy. I couldn't go behind the house because my eye would be drawn to it in an effort to understand why they didn't move the front end a few feet to the left. Gerard knew how much this bothered me and he actually considered jacking the shed up and moving it the few feet. It was a sweet thought... thank goodness we moved before it came to that end.

Our garage shares a similar relationship to our house. It isn't quite as bad as the poor unfortunate shed because the line of the driveway makes a sensible bend as it curves its way towards the garage doors. It has a justifiable curve, if you will.

Wires and cables fit into my Fan Shoe theory as well. I must have my wires hidden or lined up along the floor so tidily that they are optically illusive. I prefer not to see them at all.

I have a compulsion to keep wires in my space coiled. My mouse is a particularly troublesome example because I need enough give in the wire to facilitate the manipulation of the mouse, while still maintaining a visually peaceful Fan Shoe appearance.  I accomplish this by coiling the bulk of the wire, tying the coil in two places and leaving a ten inch span loose which I work with as I utilize the mouse. This wire business is extremely frustrating for me and, it seems I lose this battle in an effort to stay connected, I have wires running all over my office and they cross my line of vision every moment. Definitely not ideal Fan Shoe for me.

These related lines also appear in my art.  I am compelled to justify my juxtapositional arrangements. I find the order of repetition visually relaxing. I think it calms my soul. When I have troubled thoughts, I will draw vertical lines on my paper and it feels as if a pressure has been eased between my shoulder blades.

This Fan Shoe theory was in effect in my Blue Room Triptych from my post, "Everything Easy." I had many intersecting lines and they all have a direction, reason, or destination to validate their existence. I may not always remember why I placed them, but I am secure in the knowledge that at that time, those lines had purpose.

My current assignment for advanced drawing is an interpretation of this poem:

Along the Sun-Drenched Roadside

Along the sun-drenched roadside, from the great
hollow half-treetrunk, which for generations
has been a trough, renewing in itself
an inch or two of rain, I satisfy
my thirst: taking the water's pristine coolness
into my whole body through my wrists.
Drinking would be too powerful, too clear;
but this unhurried gesture of restraint
fills my whole consciousness with shining water.

Thus, if you came, I could be satisfied
to let my hand rest lightly, for a moment,
lightly, upon your shoulder or your breast.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Along the Roadside - ©2012 Darcy Cline
I can see the careful construction of lines and intersecting elements although I imagine it might be more difficult for someone who hasn't looked at this work for hours... days... and consequently been bedeviled by it.

This piece represents my first full-scale graphite drawing in years. I used to draw all the time, but somewhere along the way, I became too careful. I can see that coming out in this drawing. This careful perfectionism is what has kept we away from drawing for so long. It is emotionally draining to be so careful with something I actually love.

So, where is this going, you ask? Well, our class recently benefited from live models in the classroom and as an added bonus, we were given a 15 minute time limit to complete drawings of the models faces.

I decided to use charcoal, since I haven't explored charcoal very much... it is so messy and I do like to keep my hands as clean as possible. I have never liked the idea of smudging on purpose, and when charcoal is involved its one big smudge.

We were given a very helpful demonstration on how to use the medium, washing the drawing surface with a mid-tone to eliminate the white paper, adding in the darker shapes then finishing with reduction (erasers) or using a white conte to bring out the highlight areas.

It helped quite a bit to just jump right in and also the time limit was good for me. When given more time, I will overwork the spontaneity. I didn't have the luxury to worry about how things were lined up and relativity and Fan Shoe, etc., etc.

I think I like working with charcoal. It's freeing. I do need more practice, for sure. (My hands did get messy, though.)

See the results below.

Sketch 1 - Prior to the demonstration on charcoal.

Sketch 2 - I see my style tightening

Sketch 3 - After the demo.

Sketch 4 - 30 minutes on this sketch.

Sunday, September 30, 2012

Interesting Illustrations

Sometimes, being an illustrator is easy. There are days when drawing is painless and the images rush and flow from the pencil as if the graphite was lured onto the paper by Odysseus's Sirens, to be trapped on the page, which is transformed into a more forgiving place forever and always. The shapes are lovely, the shadows rich and supple. Its a world where ugly is transformed into fine art and becomes a thing of beauty simply because it was rendered with a pencil. Plain becomes interesting and mysterious. The blank white page comes alive with emotion and the artist... yes, me... I cannot believe what I have created.

I am stunned and filled with fear that this thing I have created sucked my stores dry and there is no more where that came from. I study it, find faults that no one will ever see and worry a little about what I will do with such an amazing creation. I can't keep everything. Like children, they must be set free to find their place in the world. I like the idea that there is artwork out there that I created, but don't know exactly who is currently looking at it and whether or not they have come up with the proper interpretation.

I take a picture of these great works and stare at them until I nod off and my ipod slips out of my hand and hits me in the nose. This indicates a good day's work.

On occasions, the illustrations come hard and heavy and the creating is chore. The lines awkward, the strokes offend the image. Nothing flows with peace and abandon. Rending becomes an effort like dragging glass over wet boulders, they slip and break on the rugged surface, shattering, leaving shards that cut and scrape. Every line is carved. It is easy to abandon, but this work must be completed, whether it is for an assignment or commission, the work must be completed. This is when it is difficult to draw.

I have been known to question myself where my art is concerned. I admit, I am a demon in my own head. I keep looking for my "style" to emerge and feel disappointed that all I see is the same old me... my style.

I draw, paint, render, print, sew, bake.... etc. I do it as I have always done it. I am careful, controlled, rigid, methodical and... I am hopeful, enthusiastic, enamored, playful, creative and in love. I am all of these things when it goes well, leaving less of the left brain qualities behind while I dive freely into a pool of the more engaging characteristics of my art self.

Still, all of these qualities and more are present when the art flows as well as when it doesn't. I never leave any of them behind, so when it goes badly, it is really my perception that is skewed. I know that when I am disappointed, its not really half as bad as I think it is. I don't really give myself a break and yet, I can look at any other drawings and find the glory, well rendered or not. I love gazing upon the artwork of children. I can see a love for the process of art in them and that is beautiful thing.

My first child, Courtney, spent many years feeling as if she missed the creative art gene that the rest of us all have. She felt her work was never good enough. I do know the feeling and maybe she was echoing my doubts about my own abilities. But the main characteristic of her artistic discontent was that she didn't love the process. Art is messy and she wanted it to be perfect. The one thing art is not.

When Courtney left home to attend college in Bellingham, she began to explore her art self, in the same way I explored design at Central. She launched an expedition through the uncharted territory of her creativity that was quite amazing, creating interesting art using any medium she could obtain... all the while claiming she wasn't an artist.

When I attended Central Washington University, I discovered a different world in art and its relationship to communication and design. That was my focus. Occasionally, I produced a drawing that wasn't technically perfect, but I loved it anyway and even though I didn't have an ipod to stare at before I fell asleep, I would sit in our tiny kitchen late into the night and look at what I made with my hand and a pencil. I did that with many of my works, but with my Self-Portrait from 1983, I feel wonder every time I look at it. Sometimes it feels amazing.

It was like that when Courtney came home from college and showed us this urgent need to create a charcoal drawing. She was driven and it was a strange thing to watch someone who felt like a left-brainer attack this artwork like a full-blown, obsessed artist... and she wasn't free until she finished the thing.

This piece is my favorite of her now vast body of artwork.  I loved the lines and the energy and her commitment to finish or to get it right.  It was perfect.

I know a well-drawn work of art gets the glory, but, what makes it interesting is loving the process.

As I begin a quarter of Advanced Drawing, I am going to give myself a break and try not to be the perfectionist. I am going to learn and lose control and draw freely. No mistakes will be made, because art is joy, the process is love and the result is a gift.

Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up. — Pablo Picasso

Smoking, Courtney Cline, 2010 Charcoal 

My Self-Portrait from 1983 - Pencil on Newsprint

Friday, September 7, 2012

Helping Hands

The art of helping is a delicate thing. There are so many different ways to do it right and so many people doing the work. This is a good thing. Helping doesn't necessarily mean we have to roll up our sleeves and get dirty.  Sometimes it’s as simple or maybe as difficult as writing a check and sending it in the mail.

Every effective organization needs money to get the job done and that person, who sent money instead of joining the mission, becomes an equal partner in the solution. Everyone helps in his or her own way, and this is extremely important.  Who am I to tell anyone how or where they should direct their energies to make a difference in this world of so many areas of need. I don't think it matters how we help, what matters is that we do help. Purchasing Fair Trade products or even buying a pair of Toms shoes helps someone else in the world. Help is help.

There are people who change their world simply by the nature of their career or job.  My husband is a special education teacher and every day he is dedicated to his work with students. He loves his job and has loved it for 25 years.

Nurses, shelter employees, counselors and psychologists (and so many others) also heal, protect, and listen to, interpret, advocate, assist, and on and on.

I recently had the opportunity to meet another kind of job-related helper on a team building challenge ropes course for our office retreat.  Let's call this helper "Travis."

One of the new terms I have learned through my job and our training workshops is "Vegas Rules." You know, "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." I find I quite like this rule. I am bound by Vegas Rules not to reveal any information about other people on this retreat. But, I do feel I can share my personal experience because I have decided there is a true art to facilitating a challenge course where participants are expected to expose themselves and learn to trust their coworkers. And this facilitator is my focus... well not really.  This is about me.

I have never participated in an event like this before and spent a great deal of energy trying to get out of attending. I somehow knew I would not like to be "exposed" to this ropes course and imagined all nature of horrors such as not being physically capable of mastering some of the unknown challenges and facing humiliation, granted in my head, as I imagined people trying to push my less than physically fit, 52 year old body over a wall like Richard Gere did during the obstacle course scene in "An Officer and a Gentleman." This is only a small example of what my mind was doing to myself and despite all this, I did end up attending.

So, about this helpful person... the moment Travis introduced himself and began to lead us through the forest and had us doing simple exercises to determine how well we worked as a team, I trusted him. I couldn't begin to define why this was so, but maybe it began with his straight talk and direct eye contact. Those mannerisms alone would be solid lead points for building trust.

Travis is a big man, sturdy and a little imposing with close-cropped hair, good skin and a sense of humor. He exuded physical and mental strength, helpful qualities for a man in his position.

He also explained everything we were about to do and what he expected from us. First thing, individuals have the right to exclude themselves from any activity in which they do not wish to participate.  Another important point he made was a little explanation about comfort zones.  He threw a few nylon harnesses on the ground and arranged them like a target. He stood in the smallest center circle and said, "This is your comfort zone." Then, as he stepped out of the smaller circle into the larger circle, he said, "this is your risk zone. This is where I want you to be today." Then he stepped out of that circle into the unconfined area and said, "This is the Death Zone.  This is not where you want you to go today. We clear?"

This little graph should help:

Most of the information out there refers to the outermost ring as the Panic Zone. Travis called it the Death Zone... I will stick with that.

I spend a great deal of time in my Comfort Zone.  A huge part of my brain spends time making sure people won't notice me, or more specifically, notice that I am fat. It's a really silly exercise to think I can manipulate this perception because, logically, I know people see me exactly how I am.  This fact doesn't hold much real estate in any practical region of my brain. Emotionally, I've got the Klingons running all over the place, strapping me into a cloaking device that indeed, hides me from all the perceived judgment going on in my head while at the same time, keeps me firmly rooted in my boring little Comfort Zone. Yes, that place where fear lives and action is limited or sporadic.

Now, here we are back at the challenge course and I am keeping up with my team.  We are weaving in and out of trees, suspended a foot or two above the forest floor, by ropes, widely spaced 4x4 posts in the ground or large staples protruding from the trees, creating a foothold. We must stay linked by a body part, hand, foot, hips, etc., as we weave our way through the ropes. A quarter of the way through the course and I'm sweating.  If I shake my head, my teammates would get drenched.

Our challenges have gotten more difficult and I have this thought in my head that if I can do it, it's too easy.  Is this the Risk Zone? My death zone would have been falling off the course and making my team start all over again so I am certainly not complaining as I hang on. We finally reach the end and I haven't yet let them down and feel quite proud of that fact, when our guide directs us to the area where we will really be tested.

We enter a clearing in the woods and just beyond Travis' head, I see a clearing with a huge wooden wall looming up into the trees.  I swallow hard.  We are here, not there, I tell myself and concentrate on the rules and directions our facilitator is sharing with us.

When I refocus, I see that we are expected to climb, while strapped into a harness and safety cables, 50 feet up a tree using those dratted staples that caused my feet to scream at me while on the low ropes. We climb up and maneuver ourselves onto a log suspended between two trees. Once on this log, we balance and walk across, maybe 30 feet, ring a cowbell, turn and then walk back to the middle of this beam.  Once there, we turn around and sit back into the open air, while our team brings us safely back to earth, where we kiss the ground and thank Heaven we are back in the United States.

While Travis is tossing around what looks to me like diaper harnesses, I have officially stepped into the Risk Zone. I am not looking at the trees anymore. Nope. Who the hell cares about the trees, the balance beam, the cowbell... no I am looking at these harnesses and they look soooo small.  I can feel my blood pressure rise as my coworkers are buckling themselves into these little bits of nylon and steel. The vein throbs in my neck sparking the idea, "if I have a heart attack, I will get out of this."

I look at Travis until he establishes eye contact and I ask him "who's got the biggest harness?"

He points to one of the young men in our group. "He does."

I look over at the harness and watch as a slim, small stature man pulls the strap tight over his stomach, which is an average-sized stomach, some would say even normal for his height and weight.

I glance back at Travis, who is probably quite intuitive and has continued to watch me unravel in tiny degrees from 15 feet away. I know everyone can hear my next words. "That is too small. It won't fit."

And BAM! I'm in my Death Zone.  I can feel myself tear up and I am trying not to show my panic. Did I just say that in public?

A few minutes later, I am looking up at the young fit people climbing the pole one after the other... success. Success. Success. I will not establish eye-contact with anyone, except my coworker standing next to me, someone who is actually closer to my age than anyone on my team, puts his arm around me and says "its okay. Just go slow, work your way up and don't look down. You can do it, Darcy." It occurs to me that I know I won't look down because my stomach would just get in the way.

I did look him in the eye and nod. He was so nice to try to reassure me but I can't maintain eye contact because, although my Death Zone receded a bit, I know there is someone in this group who is now thinking about my stomach and once I think about this fact, my Death Zone expands.

An hour passes rather quickly and everyone has taken a turn… everyone except me.  Travis asks me if I would feel more comfortable in a full torso harness.

"Will it fit?" I don't say me because I am still doing that thing I do where I try to make sure no one notices ME.

"Yes." He assures me and then walks through the group, down a path and disappears from sight.

Well now I am all alone in the middle of this crowd. I didn't realize how much I needed his calm assurance until I didn't have it to keep me from wondering what the group was doing. It reminded me of labor made easier by having a focal point.  Travis was my focal point.

As the last one to climb the tree, I think everyone is watching and observing that Travis is out of the area and I am not wearing a harness.  I don't know if they are thinking about my stomach, but I am and I can feel a surge of panic like I have never felt in my life. It brings tears to my eyes just writing it.

Travis returns and I feel simultaneously reassured and panicky. He tosses this new harness on the ground and arranges it so it looks like I am stepping onto his version of the comfort zone target and I glimpse a fleeting thought that I am so far away from safety, I can't remember how to get back, so I am obediently following directions and ignoring the fact that he can't buckle this new super huge harness over my stomach.

I look at him and realize, it doesn't matter what I do now; I am exposed. The tears begin falling in earnest although Travis has done nothing to spark them... well other than get down on his knees in front of me and fiddle with my harness. He keeps looking up at me, checking my status, I'm sure.  Then he stands, crosses his arms and contemplates my Death Zone... still, again, more.

He is as comfortable in his contemplation as I am uncomfortable with it and after an excruciatingly long moment that was probably no more than three seconds, he disappears from my sight again.

I don't move. The straps around my upper thighs and over my shoulders restrain my body.  I have no idea what my team is doing... I can't even look at them. I feel like the straps are pushing and pulling at me from behind but I know the pressure point where the cables are attached so my people can bring me down safely are in the front. I try to draw in a full breath but feel pressure around my lungs like I do when I am having an asthma episode.  My breathing is shallow, as it tends to do when I speak in public. Given that, I know I have three minutes before I start to see stars.

I see his boots as he steps back into my personal bubble; Travis has three big hiking clips in his hand.  As he clips them across my body, I begin the sobbing.

He looks me in the eyes and we are literally face-to-face. The knuckles of both his hands are digging into my stomach as he checks the strength of the linked hiking clips. "Are you okay?" This is the first time he has addressed my panic issue and I feel like I am totally the wreck of the day.  His sincere eyes are searching mine for some sign of retreat. "You don't have to do it," he says, as he stands ready to unhook everything he has just rigged together.

I can see it in his face.  He will stand down, no judgment... just say the word.

It's at this point it occurs to me that to everyone else, it might appear that I am afraid of heights. Through my sobs I tell him "I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm just processing."  I don't even know why I said that.  I am devastated and I am trying to reassure him that he doesn't have to worry about me. I'll be fine even though you just spent an hour in my "no-man's land."

"I am not afraid of heights." I say and think to myself that he was the only one who heard that as I move towards the tree, with the soundtrack of my team shouting out encouragement.

The good news is now that my stomach isn't the center of attention, I stop crying and get down to the business of climbing.

Some would say I am a pessimist. Some people also might think a realist is a pessimist but that is not always true.  I think I am a realist in that I know what my body can and can't do, which is why I wanted to stay home in my comfort zone and not go on any ropes courses and not climb any trees.

My arms are just not strong enough to pull my weight up a 50-foot tree.  I knew I could only go up so far before my arms or my knees would give out. I know this about myself. I am heavy and I cannot do chin-ups or knee-bends. I know this and I wanted to do it anyway because I had to see how far I could push myself.

The climb was rough even from the start.  That harness was so confining that it felt like it took twice as much muscle to lift my legs up against the resistance of the straps on my thighs. And as I hefted myself up each staple, I had to extend my arms to ease my stomach away from the tree and then up because the hiking clips around my front kept snagging on the bark each time I took a step up.

I knew that everyone was watching me, I wasn't imagining it. I could not hide on that crawl up the tree. I also knew that Travis was keeping his eyes on me too.  He watched every person climb up that day and I felt his focus as he made sure his contraption was doing it's job.

That day in the woods, I tried.  I made it about 40 feet before I just couldn't lift my arms up. I heard my team shouting "YOU CAN DO IT," but I knew when my fingers were slipping from the staples and my legs seemed paralyzed I was not going to get up to the beam.  I saw it was about 10 feet away but my arms were done. I couldn't do it.

It was fine. I would have liked to have made it up and walked across the top of the forest but it really didn't matter to me. I had already done the one thing I never, ever do.

I show people who I am in many ways in relationship to my work or my art. I reveal my feelings all the time. I like people to know me as a wife, a mom, a friend, an artist, a mission leader, a student, a coworker, a helping hand....

The fact is I am fat. That is not a slur or insult. It's just what it is. However, I never point to my stomach and scream to the world "Look at this! Do you see how this limits me?" That day in the woods as Travis was contemplating my girth and carefully, creatively strapping me into the harness, I knew I was pointing at my Death Zone.

I was clearly upset by his attention or more accurately, at where it was directed, but he never wavered in his calm matter-of-fact demeanor. Every move he made that day and every comment he made was solid, get the job done, attitude. I believe there is art to guiding people through difficult hurdles. They must remain objective. He wasn't thrown off at all by my unruly emotions.  That was reassuring. Travis is worthy of trust.

When I let go of the tree and was lowered to the ground, I was not disappointed at all. I was exhausted, emotionally. I let Travis unhook me and I carried on.  I shouted to my teammates throughout the rest of the course, offering my support for others, but not accepting invitations to climb any more trees. Travis offered to strap me in again after everyone had jumped off another tree onto a trapeze, but I declined. I didn't have enough left in me to give everyone present another opportunity to see that I was not afraid of heights.

Early in the day, when we were planning strategies for the low ropes and how we should proceed through the course, I had expressed a thought that I would like to have people who had done ropes courses before interspersed with inexperienced individuals. The rest of the group didn't agree and continued to separate teams based on experience.

Travis said, "wait!" He looked around at everyone and said, "you have a team member who just expressed a need and you ignored it."

I, like the rest of my coworkers, was perfectly willing to ignore my needs because I moved right along to form a newbies team.

When Travis called us out, I was embarrassed, but I knew immediately that he was there for each of us and like anyone who excels at their job, he would facilitate this group in the best way possible, not just for me, but for himself because he couldn't do any less. He did that when he didn't mince words, made us listen, or when he challenged each team member to risk more, walk backwards, do it blindfolded, take a risk.

I don't know if Travis understood what my problem was, or that it even mattered. It was the way he handled it. No differently than he would for anyone.

In our meetings, after training sessions, we are asked, "What was the takeaway from this experience?"

Well, I am still fat and after you've read this I really have pointed to my stomach and said, "Look!" No reason to pretend otherwise.  Only time will tell what I have learned from this experience.  I think about how lucky it was that my boss wouldn't let me off the hook and insisted I go on the retreat because I would have felt so outside this excellent group of people, had I not attended and learned about them and myself (not just on the ropes course, but for the whole retreat.)  My job requires me to create artwork that will affect their events so we are tied together, invested in each other and that’s a good takeaway.

As for the rest? Acceptance is an art I have yet to master. I can learn from Travis in the way he accepted what is real and relevant to the situation. 

I was horrified to have someone openly looking at and thinking about my stomach. I had no idea how tightly I wrap my arms around my body to protect me from being hurt or how my efforts to be liked make me hide myself to try to make others more comfortable in my presence.

I am at peace with the events of that day in the woods and I rather like that I fell apart, because it really showed me where my absolute vulnerability lies. 

Here's a little gem.

There’s something liberating about not pretending. 
Dare to embarrass yourself. Risk. – Drew Barrymore

I can't pretend anymore.

All Strapped In       ----      Almost There       ----       Coming Down