Earthquakes & Climbing Mountains

“The closer you are to death the more you realize you are alive.”

A series of earthquakes and tsunamis hit Japan yesterday, wiping out acres upon acres of farmland and rural homes. The footage on the news of cars, boats and tour busses being swept under bridges, and streets being pulverized with steady flows of water were disturbing to watch. None of the filming showed any people, except for one person waving a white flag from the top story window of a house surrounded by water for miles.

This was the first time I’ve ever had to evacuate my home to get to “higher ground” with the possible threat of a natural disaster. Grabbing my rain coat, iPhone, and the bottle of wine I was drinking, I headed to my friends place further inland. I knew I’d be safe, but I still couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about the unfathomable amount of debris being carried away into the ocean, the diseases being swept over Japan’s agricultural lands, and the people trapped in their homes watching their only food stuffs swimming around in their pantries and cabinets. I was wondering all night what was going through these peoples heads and if anyone was pondering whether or not surviving was actually a better alternative.

Last week I watched a movie about two climbers/mountaineers who were the first men to successfully climb Siula Grande in the Peruvian Andes in 1985 - Simon Yates and Joe Simpson. Both men successfully reached the top, but as they were on their descent Simon’s ice pick lost a grip and he ended up falling breaking his leg and knee. In an attempt to continue their descent, Simon was thrown off a ledge and left dangling for over an hour without Joe knowing what had happened. With no other option, he had to cut the rope, forcing Simon to fall over 100 feet into an ice crevice. Joe, thinking his partner was dead, continued down the mountain safely. Simon, who miraculously wasn’t killed, was able to get himself out of the crevice, solo, and return to base camp by dragging himself for over four days with no food or water. While he told his story, he mentioned the feeling of losing himself – that he was separate from his body and all other things in the material life. In a state of delirium, he felt that his “being” was just part of the world. He was even at the point where he was playing games with himself to see how far he could continue on – “just another 20 minutes” or “to that next rock.” On a larger scale, the journey seemed unbearable he said, but as he broke it into manageable pieces he was able to make it back to base camp alive.

What amazed me most about this story was the power he had over his mind. The control and self-discipline he had over his thoughts and body was unbelievable. After watching this documentary and hearing about the earthquakes in New Zealand, Japan, and all over the world, I am trying to shift my focus to a deeper practice of self-discipline and mind control. With this constant unease due to war, disasters, and unpredictabilities, the only constant I can control is myself, and with climbing I have learned a sense of control and discipline necessary to complete a problem. So whether it’s on rock, at home, or in the wake of a disaster, there is a calmness and self-motivation necessary to overcome the problems we face. Everyday I will continue on – “just another 20 minutes” or “to that next rock.” Otherwise – it’s just giving up.

(Don't) Tell Me I Can't

Real Word Magazine December 2010 Issue 1.5 Courage

(Don't) Tell Me I Can't
by Kathryn Hansis


Foot on brake, foot on clutch, key in ignition, shift into first.
Don’t tell me I can’t.

“You’re just shy.”
The words cover me like thick, boiling molasses. Slowly covering my entire body and heating up my skin from head to toe. I cringe at the thought of how red my face can get just from three letters.

Foot on gas, slowly release clutch.
I’m moving. To Hawai`i.

Shy. The compact, three-letter word, which has been a constant source of frustration, has relentlessly followed me around for the last 23 years. And this time, it’s no different. For as long as I can remember I’ve been trying to scrape this word, and its negative connotation, from my back. But even after 4,000 miles, from Boston to Hawai‘i, this word has adhered itself to my skin, stuck on as if it’s part of me. It’s not.

Foot on clutch, shift into second.
I’m moving forward.
And so is my head, my ideas, my thoughts, my creativity, my fears, my anxiety.

When I was younger my peers attached the adjective “shy” to my name as if it was something I could put on my resume. As if it was a card I could pull out when trying to describe myself. But it came in the same deck as quiet, lonely, timid, and afraid, and I refuse to play those cards.

Every time I heard these words, I would get angry from the inside out. Even though I was always stoic in my appearance, anyone who was paying any attention could see the discomfort in my face. But no one was, because I was too shy to be bothered with.

Foot on clutch, foot on break, shift into neutral.
I’m stopped.
Where do I go from here?
What is the next step?
I’ve done this before, how come I can’t figure out what to do next?

But in my solitude I was always dreaming. Dreaming of independence, solo adventures, and self-sufficiency. Dreaming of being defined by my strengths instead of my weaknesses. Dreaming of being defined by how I really am on the inside rather than by how I appear to be on the outside.

But that word, shy, crept in and put up barricades on all the roads that lead me out of my mind. The barricades appeared in the form of preparations for conversations that I might have during my next human interaction. They came in the form of line rehearsal for possible questions I might be asked. My creativity was always being interrupted. And it was all in an effort to make up for my lack of successful discourse, and to counteract my social anxiety. It was as if for the last 23 years, every conversation felt like an interview.

I sit at the stop sign. I sit there much longer than necessary. Long enough to annoy the truck sitting behind me. I wave him on to move ahead of me, while I slouch down in my seat to avoid eye contact and any further embarrassment. Why did I buy this truck? I can’t even drive it….

When did I forget what to do?
Wait, when did I ever actually know what to do?
Stop thinking. You don’t need to know what to do.
Just do it.

But all struggles build character. Although I’ve been hidden behind a word, and in some situations, lost the chance to be known for who or what I really can do or be, I’ve been given the opportunity to put all of my energy into something that I can be proud of. I’ve been able to find my voice through my creativity. My art, photography, writing, and design have always been the best friends I’ve ever had. They are my passion and the way I feel most comfortable expressing myself. They are my unspoken words.

What I’ve learned is that what I need most is to be satisfied with what is inside, and that is something that only I can figure out. But today, there isn’t a lot of time to be quiet and find our inner voices. There aren’t many opportunities to be alone – or simply, to be. So instead of being regarded as wise, powerful, and reflective, silence is looked upon as being awkward, unproductive, and uninformed. At least that’s been my experience.

I can’t sit here all day. I can’t leave my truck here. Try harder.
Stall.
Stall again.
Frustration takes over.
Anger cancels out anxiety.
Breathe. No one will do this for you. You have to figure it out by yourself.
Try harder.

So here I am.
In an effort to rid myself of this curse and instead focus on my blessing — my ability to retreat within myself, my ability to find comfort in being alone, my ability to think before I speak, and most importantly, my ability to listen — I moved as far away as possible from my home in Boston, and I dove head first into a situation where survival was the only choice. I wanted to teach myself just how strong I can be.
How strong I know I am.

Foot on clutch, shift into first.
Foot on gas, slowly release clutch.
I’m moving.

So here I am. Trying to try harder.
At the beginning of two parallel journeys, which happen to be at an intersection of Waialua Beach Rd and Komo St.

One involves facing all fears, saying yes to every opportunity I am offered, and pushing myself to be more than just the shy girl who doesn’t speak very much.
Because I’m not just that girl.

The other involves understanding the reality that I may always be that girl on the outside, but accepting myself for who I really am, and not allowing the adjectives that others use to describe me dictate what I can do with my life, or limit me in any way.

Foot on clutch, shift into second.
I’m moving. To Hawai`i.

Hopefully, some day in the future I will deny every last word of this and pretend that everything came naturally, without struggle…. But until that day, which may (let’s be realistic) never come, I will continue to work on my flaws. In an effort to do so I am constantly focusing on how to try harder. No matter where I go, I will have a burden to face, but I will also always have my strength as a counterweight. It is because of my strength that I have accomplished things this year that I would never have imagined possible. And it is because of my solitude, silence, and quiet, that I was able to find that inner strength.

Foot on clutch, shift into third.

So now I try harder, push a little further, and do something today that I was afraid to do yesterday. I’m on a journey to see just how far I can push myself and just how much I can accomplish, just by being me.

Fourth. Fifth.
And don’t you dare tell me I can’t.
I’ll be the judge of that.

Salvation

I started to add up the "Bric-a-brac" stickers I collected on my wall one night while I waited for the paint to dry on yet another canvas, during yet another (alcohol induced) "creative break-through." I sat there doing 3rd grade arithmetic, adding the one dollar and 50 cent stickers as if they were prizes. Some days, they were prizes. These small purchases kept me from going crazy on days when reality wasn't real enough; on days when I needed to play make-believe in order to feel like an actual human again.

I made thirteen bracelets that night from the old belts I bought from the Waipahu Salvation Army - and that's only the beginning. When I first moved to Waialua, this is where I got everything I needed to feel "home." Even though they mostly came from the "Brick-a-brac" section and were used, abused, and even broken, I bought things that I felt connected with - my dark-stained four-drawer wooden bureau, my leather mahogany smoking (swivel) chair, my gold framed Victorian (plastic) mirror, and my never-leave-the-house-without-it navy blue and gold Air Force hat (to remember my grandfather). All the things that make up my new everyday routine, have came from this small thrift store right off of the H2.

Tucked away at the first right hand turn before entering Waipahu - and before hitting any real traffic - is my Salvation Army. My muse, friend, inspiration, and comfort, all packed-up into one gently used store front decorated with purple, orange, and yellow price tags. It's behind these walls that the items live. They sit on shelves with their colorful stickers and made-up price tags with stories and past lives that could be as diverse as the island that they live on. The soldier, the single mother, the farmer, or the family of eight; Japanese, Hawaiian, Chinese, Haole, Filipino, Spanish, Africa American, or Hapa. Inspired by the possibilities, I give them all creative owners with interesting stories. I'll pretend that the navy and gold hat belonged to a retired Vet with too many stories to tell in one night, and that the leather mahogany swivel chair belonged to a famous writer, bookie, or someone's grandpa - in that order. But regardless of their past and previous owners, I will love them to death for their "now." I will love them to death for their presence in my life and their ability to give me the inspiration I need, regardless of what happened to them in the past.

And let's be honest, how often can you find a sexy, mahogany, leather chair that doesn't have a past? Plus, I feel pretty damn fly while drinking a whiskey on the rocks with it hanging around...

28 letters.

There is folder in my inbox that holds 28 letters that I never sent. Letters of honesty and truth. Letters that expressed my true feelings. Feelings I wasn't able to communicate in spoken words. Words that explained why I was unhappy.

But they were never sent. They were left unread in a folder labeled "drafts," as if to say, "these will be revised; these feelings of sadness and confusion will be turned into feelings of happiness and contentment; this draft is just a draft, and all the 'hates' will turn to 'loves' and all the 'lies' will turn to 'truths;' just wait it out a little longer." But there is only so long that you can wait. Only so long for a draft to stay rough. Sometimes you can't revise what you wrote, and it makes more sense to just start over clean with a new page, new perspective, new attitude, and new direction on what to write, to whom, and to where it will be sent. I realize now I was spending too much energy and creativity trying to revise something that was poorly written. No matter how much I loved the individual words, they never worked well as a whole. There were incomplete and run-on sentences, paragraphs with no conclusions, and inconsistencies in style. Ultimately they didn't make me feel like I was reaching my potential as a writer or person.

But even after this realization, I still can't delete those drafts yet. At first I thought it was because I hoped some day I would be able to check for i's that weren't dotted and t's that weren't crossed and figure out why I wasn't sending the letters, but then I realized that wasn't why they stayed unsent. They were never meant to be sent in the first place. I wrote them to myself as to say "things aren't good, Kathryn." These letters were my journal, my inner self and intuition trying to say "this isn't right." These letters were me, screaming at myself to change something before I got lost in my own confusion and depression. So although some day I will be able to put these drafts in the trash and compose a new kind of letter, for now they will stay in my unsent drafts folder. They will stay there as a constant reminder of the truth that was hidden in the lies. They will stay there until the "Dear (fill-in-the-blank)" is different. They will stay there to keep me from sending new letters. They will stay there to remind me to trust my intuition. And they will stay there to keep me strong.

And I won't need anybody.

"I wanna go to Hawai`i
Build my castle out of sand
And i won't need anybody
Telling me that I can't"

When your heart is bleeding.

When you want to scream at the top of your lungs,
When you can't stand to hear the words that roll off some people's tongues,
When the pain lingers above you like a body that's been hung,
When there is nothing left to say and all the lies have been sung.

When your heart is bleeding, make the best of it.

When you've given up on the things that you thought were right,
When the people you thought loved you are out of sight,
When you're always alone in your head's constant fight,
You can still become someone's simple, bright and much needed light.

When your heart is bleeding, make the best of it.

So never give up no matter how hard you hurt,
Never feel bad for yourself when you're face down in the dirt,
Try even harder when you want to subvert,
Because this time it's your strength that you need to assert.

When your heart is bleeding, make the best of it.

So realize that any event in our lives that worked out wrong,
Was just another experience that helped make us strong,
Because the place we were at was just not where we belong,
And something new will come along quickly, and it won't take very long.

Hand it over.

My mom used to always tell me:
"If you can't handle it, hand it over to God."

I hated this.

I hated hearing her tell me what to do, tell me to hand it over to "god" -whoever/whatever that was, tell me I "couldn't handle" something, and above all, preach to me about religion. But the one thing that I have learned thus far during my short life, is that Mom is always right.

The way I am living today, is a subconscious affirmation of living out the lessons I have learned from Mom while doing what I need to do in order to survive and still being happy living my life the way I want. The two things I realized that I want in life are to be creative and to be happy. I left the rest up to "god" or the "universe" to decide for me. I simply "handed it over," as she would say. I left my worries on the plane and told myself that I would do what I had to do, and to be positive and happy while doing it.

Lucky for me, the things that I "had to do" are exciting, fun, and creative. Still, however, they are hard work and I am accomplishing them independently. I have to constantly put myself out there and overcome my own insecurities in order to succeed everyday. Even though I may only be two months deep in my journey of self discovery, I have already learned that if you are willing to work hard, willing to push yourself to try harder than you think you can, and willing to adapt to situations you are not comfortable with, you will succeed. You will also find yourself in the process and you will be proud of what you can accomplish.

I am. And all I had to do was be willing, and to hand it over. I may not be religious, but I am spiritual, and I truly believe there is something greater than you and me, working it's way into our lives everyday.