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There's snow on the ground still, but it's perfect for bouldering.
During the day, it's hot enough to climb shirtless, though at night the temperatures drop so low we're desperately throwing on layer after layer.
I love Bishop.
To be able to climb like this with the alpine mountains in the background-- it's amazing.
And being able to stare up at the stars from my bivvy bag-- it's magical. The sky is so clear. At night you can see the Milky Way.
As a child, I knew the Milky Way existed, and I'd see pictures of it in books or whatnot, so I knew it was visible from the ground somewhere on Earth-- but I'd never actually seen it before. It wasn't until I started climbing that I got to see such things.
It's under these stars and moon that we live.
The same stars and moon as everyone else.
I remember standing on the warm shores of Tonsai three years ago, staring at the full moon over the water, having these exact same thoughts.
I've definitely changed since that time-- I've learned a lot of skills, met people, gained more possessions and money.
I wonder what that Tammy-on-the-Shore would think of Tammy-of-Today.
In her hippie-free-spirit ideals, yes, life is suffering but the most important thing is to do what you love, be happy and grateful every day, and live beautifully and honestly and with kindness, and these little actions will save the world one step at a time.
But I remember things.
I remember the 4 year old boy at the preschool I worked at in East Oakland. The boy who'd gotten into a fight with another child before we could intervene-- his mother came in through the door as he started crying. "What's wrong?" Another boy had hit him, he said. "Didn't I tell you? If someone hits you, you hit him back!"
I remember the 1st grade girl in my English class in South Korea who, in contrast to the ultra-girly dresses and hair ribbons that all her female peers flaunted, wore her hair short like a boy and preferred dressing in pants and T-shirts. In a country that places more value on sons over daughters, her ultra traditional father ignored her completely, choosing instead to dote endlessly over her older brother. On her vocabulary homework for the word "smile", she wrote, "I hate it when my dad smiles."
I remember the boy in my class in high school who had gotten accepted into UCLA, one of America's top public universities-- only to have to turn it down to attend community college, because as an illegal immigrant, he couldn't get scholarships or loans to pay for tuition and housing.
I remember the middle and high schools I visited in Atlanta-- steel bars covered the windows and metal detectors and police officers greeted you at every entrance. You were a criminal before you knew what legal systems were.
I remember the 5th grade boy I taught in Atlanta. He'd been one of those kids who matured physically early-- looking at him, you could've easily mistaken him for a high school student. He hated it when people pointed out his height which towered over the other children, not to mention me. He'd been suspended because he'd brought a knife to school. All he wanted was to be cool and accepted like the other 5th grade boys, so in inner city Atlanta, he became cool the only way he knew how.
A million memories flood my mind day in and day out, even as more memories are created endlessly.
Memories of climbing in the mountains, camping under the stars, diving in open waters and fishing in frozen lakes.
Moments spent studying, partying with friends, going on dates along street lamp lined streets.
Idleness watching movies, watching videos, watching life unfold,
Countless memories created endlessly.
Endlessly.
At the end of my days, which of these memories remain?
As I face the abyss, what are my values?