Andy Malone I found myself scrambling up the mountain, mindless. My fingers and feet hunted rocky crevices without me. My thighs and calves were independent agents, too, sharing weight and distributing energy, uncovering ways to strike balance, moment by moment. I felt inventive and intelligent all over. That was the difference: my creativity was not locked in some laboratory of the brain, but was, instead, permeating every limb. Up I went.
I felt a new man. Just two hours before and forty-two miles away, I had desperately opened my Starbucks app, eager to nab a second iced coffee via mobile order before our ride came. I had spent the early morning proofreading two papers, fretting over APA italicization rules. Even on the ride up, my attempts to ignore my phone so that I might peep at the fall leaves were dithering. I made equal glances out the window and toward Buzzfeed.
That crowded life felt far away on Storm King. Among the imposing rocks and soft beds of leaves, my mind quieted and my body awoke. The landscape was stunning, but my body’s strength and ingenuity felt like the real discovery. I witnessed my body’s ability to guide me, to warn me, fuel me. I marveled at his propensity for problem-solving, the way he nudged stones and found branches and turned my ankles at surprising angles, just enough to never twist them. I marveled, too, at his confidence; the way he propelled me up ledges that my eyes feared were too dangerously far apart.
I wondered if I should feel guilty, to have not seen these parts of my body before. But the moment felt too good for guilt. Not a hedonistic good. A clean-air, bright-sky good. My body was not jealous or prideful. He was not on this mountain to make a point. He was just climbing.
That my body could be smart, or inventive, or bold: for me, these are strange ideas. I imagine this is a result of mind-body dualism, a concept I am only dimly studied on. But I did I experience that divide very clearly on Storm King. I saw and felt mind-like traits in my body; and the instant I did, I felt separate from him, an observer in my own skin. Once my body was anything but physical, he was no longer me.
Now, down from the mountain, I’m left wondering about these relationships: my mind, my body, and me. How, at age 34, can my body have surprised me so much up? It’s not that I neglect him. In fact, I put a lot of work into him. Daily. I strike tennis balls against concrete walls. I pedal through stationary bike rides. I pull against the weight of my rowing machine. I’m no body builder, but I attend to my corpus.
When I compare these daily workouts to my brief time on Storm King, however, the differences become apparent. First, fearing boredom, I crowd my work outs with stimuli for the mind. I play podcasts through wireless headphones as I practice my groundstrokes. I watch Netflix documentaries as I cycle and row. Storm King denied me these habitual distractions and afforded me the opportunity to notice my body’s good work.
Second, my exercises are repetitive and predictable. There are no surprising rock formations or uneven terrains. No occasions for the physical ingenuity that so impressed me on the mountain. I’ve asked my body to perform, but not to think. He must be bored, too.
In fact, when I do pay attention to my body, it is not to scan for his strengths. My body surveillance is mostly an act of judgment, if not scorn. I swivel slowly in the mirror after getting dressed, worrying about my waist line, analyzing my torso, glancing back at my butt. Years as a fat kid might amplify my body-shaming tendencies. But I think they mostly come from years of living awash in American media. Nearly everyone I know is, like me, very harsh on their body.
Given years of harshness, I owe my body even more praise. In addition to smart and strong, he is generous and forgiving. I’ve asked him to work, day after day, at rote tasks with little gratitude, heaping attention upon my mind all the while. I’ve paraded him in front of mirrors, calling him all sorts of names. And yet, facing the mountain, he did not hold back. He offered his best, his reserves of power and flashes of brilliance, as we hiked Storm King.
It will likely be some time before I find myself on a mountain again. Till then, I hope to hold on to what I learned of my body this weekend. Perhaps, even without rocky terrain, I can find ways to vary his assignments, such that I might evoke his ingenuity. Perhaps, even with ample wifi, I can power down the headphones and screens, such that I might study him more fully. Perhaps, even though far from Storm King, my memories of how he was there can soften my inner critic, just a bit, when we stand ourselves at the mirror.
And maybe someday, mountain aside, I might come to accept my body’s strengths as my own.
