A Little Bit of Ice

I want to talk about fear. Sometimes I think fear is stupid. Other times I think fear is the most natural, protective instinct we have. I'm afraid of a lot of things. I'm afraid of forgetting to put on my pants before I go to school in the morning. I'm afraid of not finding a job. I'm afraid of finding one. I'm afraid of writing everyday and realizing I really haven't got much to say. I'm afraid of what's going to happen next month, when my visa expires and I'm forced out of the place I've come to love so much. I'm afraid of leaving Spain. I'm afraid of staying. I'm afraid of how much I like morcilla (Spanish blood sausage). And most of all, I'm afraid sometimes of how crazy I am about this boy I met just six months ago and the vulnerability that comes with that.


Allow me to exspain.


Everyone, meet Iván. Iván, meet everyone.

Sun in Sevilla.

This is Iván. He works with me at school. He's from Alcázar and he has a cat named Isis and bright pink socks and a smile that makes me smile. He's happy when he's in the mountains or on the beach or with his guitar. He beats me at chess. For breakfast he heats milk in a bowl and has HOT cereal -- this wowed me. I'm easily wowed. He thinks Americans are nuts because we eat dinner at 6. We laugh at the way each person speaks the other's language, but really we're incredibly lucky to have two different idiomas to express what we feel. He's nice enough that we speak English when we fight. But really that's not even the beginning of getting to know him. That's not even part of the beginning. Which actually brings me back to fear.


I've been afraid for the past few months to write about this kid. In fact, it took me a really long time to realize it, but the fear of writing about this kid, coupled with the giant part that he's been playing in my life, might be part of the reason why I've neglected this blog for so long. So yeah, I've been afraid to write about Iván. I want you to meet him. I want everyone I know to meet him. Sometimes I like to daydream about introducing him to all the people who read this blog (and many many people who don't), all my favorite people, as we hang out in some little bar in Downtown or walk around the Ferry Building (depending, of course, on who you are and where you live -- my daydream is happy to come to you). And when I'm daydreaming that, I'm the happiest girl around. And sometimes, that's really scary. Because it's easy from there to start worrying about getting your hopes up. It's easy to start thinking -- "but what if things fall apart?" It's easy for things that you invest in to crumble, and talking about it makes them seem all the more fragile. What I mean, I guess, is it's easy to give in to the knee-jerk reaction of fear for self-protection. Maybe I'm not explaining right, and maybe it's not necessary to explain everything on an internet abyss with a punny title, but I'll try my best to get some megapixel of my scattered idea across, because this concept of fear and of letting fear go has a lot to do with my time here and the things I've come to realize about myself.


I will use an example. Conveniently, this example also will finally put you a little bit more up to date with what's been going on in my life. But only a little. Because it was like two months ago.


Okay. So there was this mountain. Or, you know, mountainy sort of area place thing. It's called Riopar and, as I have confirmed, it is on Google Images. Its star attraction is a waterfall that turns into the beginning of a river that dominates the province of Albacete. Iván and I headed up there to hike one weekend in February when there wouldn't be many tourists or other hikers and we could enjoy the wilderness almost all to ourselves.


At first we wandered around a bit by the bottom of the waterfall, where the wide path was paved with "rugged" cobblestones and wooden banisters. Couples were taking pictures of each other with pinched, violently happy smiles and thick scarves. A family was hauling their little 'uns up the stone stairs, leaning them over the railings to feel the mist. It was lovely and safe and very pretty. But it wasn't all there was.


Soon, we found the real fun. A winding, overgrown trail, nearly invisible save for the white arrows chalked on trees as periodic reassurances that the traveler wasn't utterly lost. It led, Iván told me, to the top of the waterfall, and the cave from which it fell. Iván told me the cave was a deep network of crevices and tunnels, but from the ground, it looked more like a long, gaping gash in the rocks. It also looked, you know, um, kinda, well, high. And I wanted to go to there.


After about ten steps, I claimed a walking stick for myself, and spent the rest of the trek feeling a bit like Samwise Gamgee loping along after Aragorn. The pathlet (mini-path? pathito?) snaked along the edge of the mountain, weaving between trees and expansive views, and I hummed the Lord of the Rings theme song and congratulated myself on my good choice of walking stick and was a generally happy camper.


Until there was the ice.


It was only a little ice. And after all, it was February and it was a mountain and we were right next to a ton of water, so of course there would be ice. Still. It was ice. I'm pretty sure I've only seen ice in the wilderness a handful of times. For me, seeing real ice on the ground is like seeing a hipster in Spain -- very unlikely and highly shocking. 


We weren't far from the top when it happened. A steep drop off on the outer edge of the path, and along the incline a small but intrusive patch of shiny stuff. It stretched for about three feet along the path, and before I really thought about it, it seemed harmless enough.


"Careful of the ice," Iván said, a few steps ahead of me, clearing the section with this mountain goat kind of hop. The man has a grace that I most surely lack. I watched his back as he moved a few steps away from me. I kicked a rock and watched it tumble down the cliff. I looked back to Iván. Cliff. Iván. Ice. Damn, that's a long way down. Damn.


Around then, I just shut down. Really, I was safe. Of course, not completely safe --I was taking the risks that always accompany hiking. Still, I was completely paralyzed with fear, so afraid of falling that I couldn't take the next step. It flooded me wordlessly. I was helpless. I couldn't go forward or even turn and run. I couldn't do anything but cling to the rock and think of all the terrible ways this could end, and how I could never get out. The world became twisted and small and threatening and I just wanted to apparate away from my terror. Of course, the fear came from a reasonable place -- a self-protective, self-preserving place -- but it had grown far beyond proportion to incapacitate me.


And all because of a little bit of ice.

Moment of peril: a re-enactment

But then Iván looked back. "You're so brave," he said. "We don't have to go any further. You're so so brave. Don't do anything you don't want to." He stepped to the rock just beyond the ice and held out his hand. "It's just a little ice. Do you want to keep going?"


It's just a little ice, really. And his hand was so close. How could a little ice keep me back here, a quivering ball of out-of-control fear. So I made the scary choice. It wasn't even that far to jump, once I'd done it.


At the top it was beautiful. It was worth it.

Spoiler Alert -- he doesn't jump.

Maybe my connection between the trip to Riopar and my fear about writing about Iván don't have much rationally to do with each other. But I can't help but be reminded of that feeling of falling with no one to catch me. Throwing myself into the uncertain and uncontrolled has never been something that I've felt comfortable with. For Iván and I, our lives are up in the air and full of question marks. For the past three months, I've been afraid to write about him here because I was afraid I would somehow jinx things, that once I wrote about him he would disappear. We are still learning to trust each other and love without reservations. Like my fear of falling, my fear of my feelings for Iván is rooted in an instinct for self-protection. But once fear becomes paralyzing, it ceases to be useful or even healthy. Maybe this won't last forever. Maybe it will. But as long as I focus on the ending, I'll keep missing the middle. And it's a really great middle.


Neither of us know what will happen in the next few months. But no matter how things go, this has been beautiful, and I'm finally ready to try to forget about fear and take in the view.