Welcome to The Naked Nowletter! My community is for those seeking a deeper connection with their true essence and a more intimate relationship with themselves, others, and the unseen world. We explore authentic communication, connection, and what it means to get Naked in the Now. Each week, I share a personal story, enriching thoughts, and juicy practices—plus occasional links to articles that inspire presence and transformation.
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The Rock We Didn’t Climb — and the Conversation We Braved Instead
Published 3 months ago • 8 min read
Hello Kindred Spirit!
Life Has Been Full…
I intended to send out this newsletter earlier, but life had other plans.
There was our vacation, then my niece’s wedding, and just this past weekend—our granddaughter’s birthday. It’s been a swirl of joy, celebration, and family presence.
And now, finally, I get to sit down and write to you—to tell you a story that’s still echoing in me.
On the Road North We headed north mid-July in our van, weaving our way toward Bellingham with approach shoes, a guitar, climbing gear, and a loose plan to “play” in wild places. We stopped at Great Basin National Park and hiked to the glacier perched below Wheeler Peak. In Nevada’s Lamoille Canyon, we found a little campsite tucked between grassy hills, crystal-clear streams, and granite walls—and got in a few songs under the stars. I hoped we were tuning into each other as well. The next morning, we hiked up to a local crag and managed a quick climb too.
It felt good to move our bodies on rock again. We were looking forward to City of Rocks, Idaho—a rock-climbing mecca we’d been to before. There, we planned to re-climb Theater of Shadows, a four-pitch 500-foot climb on Steinfell’s Dome. It’s a bit of a hike to get to, but the route is a beautiful, mellow 5.7—a joy.
Storms Incoming
We rolled into the City of Rock under dark skies—an omen of things to come? Just as Jay hopped out at the latrine, a surprise storm erupted—thunder, lightning, and sheets of rain pounded the van like hail. It passed quickly, and we settled into a shady campsite, dreaming of climbing the next day.
But what we ended up climbing wasn’t a rock face. It was something more challenging, scarier, and more critical.
We’d scored a site near Bath Rock, a giant monolith just steps from our van. That night, we rested, grateful we had enough time to recover before our big climb. I strummed a few songs, hoping we’d get a good night’s sleep.
The Climb We Didn't Expect
Jay had recently started a detox protocol prescribed by a new doctor—finally, a diagnosis that explained his recurring illnesses over the past year: MARCoNS, a resilient staph infection that often nests in the sinuses and thrives in those affected by mold or chronic inflammation. The treatment involves pulling toxins from the body—a process known to cause discomfort before it improves.
He seemed to be tolerating the protocol well—or so we thought. But detox symptoms tend to build gradually.By the time we got to City of Rocks, the fatigue and vulnerability were catching up.
The next morning, we reconsidered our plan. Theater of Shadows now felt like too much. I found a newer, shorter 2-pitch 5.6 climb nearby on Bath Rock. Perfect, we thought. Something simpler. Something we could still feel good about.
When the Body Says No
But when we approached the route, things felt… off. The first bolt was sixty feet off the ground, and the unprotected scramble to reach it made us both uneasy. Jay hesitated. “I don’t feel like climbing,” he said.
I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s just scramble around.”
What I didn’t know was that he felt deep shame for backing down. In his mind, he should have been able to do it. The decision not to climb made him feel old, weak, and fragile—though none of this was said aloud.
Slips, Triggers, and the Quiet Between
Later, we set out to scramble up another boulder near our campsite—“our rock,” we called it. I felt nervous (scrambling always rattles me more than rope climbing), but I followed his lead.
Then Jay slipped. His foot skidded on mud stuck on the sole of his shoe from the storm the night before, and he fell twice. I instinctively caught him with my knee, which struck his ribs hard, but kept him from tumbling further. His body was okay. Mine? A little less so.
Back in the van, we curled up together. But somewhere in the quiet intimacy that followed, something shifted in me. Jay touched a place inside me—both physically and emotionally—that triggered a rare but familiar trauma response. My PTSD, which has been largely dormant for years, reared up. A wave of dissociation. A shame spiral. Shakiness and fear. I didn’t say anything. I assumed it would pass.
Two People, One Cliff
Later, we attempted something simple: hiking up the back of Bath Rock. A downclimb route described as “peppered with rebar handholds” sounded doable in theory. But when we reached it, the fear hit me like a wall. Only four rebar holds—steep exposure. No rope. I froze and began to cry, too scared to move.
Jay talked me down, gently. I was grateful. But now I felt ashamed for bailing. What was wrong with me?
Back at the van, the air between us thickened. We were both quiet, each tangled in our unspoken shame. I was focused on my PTSD. He was still holding his feelings from the morning. But neither of us knew what the other was carrying.
This Was the Real Climb
“I think we should talk,” Jay said.
Yes, I thought. Good. Finally.
But when I started to share about my PTSD, he cut me off. “I don’t want to talk about that right now.”
I blinked. Hurt. Angry. Confused. “Wait… what?”
We stood there, side by side, but not seeing each other. A familiar cliff rose between us—this time not made of granite, but of tangled emotion, misunderstood intentions, and the ache of not being known.
I stood there, heart aching, eyes brimming, the old ache of not being heard tightening in my chest. Hadn’t we just agreed that we wanted to grow in how we communicate? I felt the swell of emotion rise within me. I had so much to say. But just before I opened my mouth again, something unexpected stopped me.
The Reach
A whisper from within: this… this…
This is the moment. This is the opportunity. This is the real practice.
Even though I was upset and felt misunderstood, I remembered my deeper intention: to listen. Really listen—even when I didn’t want to.
I paused, took a breath, and asked quietly, “If you don’t want to talk about my PTSD… is there something youwant to talk about?”
It took everything in me to say those words. To make that reach.
Jay stood still, wrestling with something. “There are so many words I want to say,” he said slowly. “But I’m afraid if I say them, we’ll end up in a fight.”
“Just talk,” I said, gently. “I want to listen. I really do. I want to learn.”
Shared Humanity
He exhaled.
“It’s just that… I feel so ashamed. I feel weak, fragile, and old. I should have been able to do that climb. And I backed down. And I feel embarrassed and small.”
And suddenly, everything inside me softened.
I hadn’t known. I truly hadn’t seen that he was carrying his own quiet storm. And while our experiences had been so different, the emotion underneath was the same. Shame. Vulnerability. Tenderness. Fear.
And now: the bridge.
“Oh,” I said. “Oh, Rudra… I didn’t realize you were still feeling that way. I’m so sorry.”
As the words left my mouth, space opened between us. Compassion entered. I remembered his detox protocol, the heavy toll it was probably taking. I remembered how shame works—how it isolates and silences.
I blurted out everything I suddenly saw: “Of course you feel weak! Of course, it built up over time. Of course, you didn’t feel like climbing! This makes so much sense now. And wow… I was feeling the same thing. I felt so ashamed, too! This… this is the climb we were supposed to do today.”
And just like that, we were on the same rope team again—climbing not the granite slabs of Bath Rock, but the even steeper cliffs of relationship and communication. Of trust. Of honest, messy human connection.
In this strange and beautiful place, surrounded by monoliths and silence, this became our summit. Not a victory over fear, but a handhold found in shared humanity.
We didn’t conquer a rock wall that day. But we caught each other when it mattered most.
The Storm After the Storm
That night, another thunder and lightning storm rolled through. We listened to it in wide-eyed wonder, enjoying the intensity. “I miss big thunderstorms,” Jay declared. I smiled and nodded.
They didn’t feel so ominous now, not like the first one that had greeted us. We’d weathered something larger than rain—something old and invisible, something we hadn’t even realized we’d carried here with us.
And now, after the storm: clarity. Openness. The quiet, holy exhale of repair.
Maybe we’ll come back another time and climb Theater of Shadows. Or maybe not. Maybe what we came for… was this.
As I reflect on this journey, I realize that another kind of climb was happening alongside the physical one—one marked by music, metaphor, and quiet release.
A Song for the Journey Interestingly, when we set out on our trip, I hoped to learn how to play Frozen’s “Let It Go,”so the whole family could sing along. I’d only been playing guitar a few weeks, stumbling over chords and melody. In hindsight, I can see that song—about the kingdoms of isolation we build in our minds, and our tendency, like Elsa, to conceal, don’t feel—was fitting.
On our last night at the final campsite before meeting family, I pulled out the guitar and managed a “good enough” rendition of Let It Go. As I belted out, “Let it go, let it go, can’t hold it back anymore,” I thought about how we sometimes cling to our silence and shame—until we finally choose to release them and reach for connection.
That moment, that song, felt like its own small summit on this journey—an invitation to keep climbing, not just on rock, but inside ourselves.
Juicy Practice: The Climb Inside This week, gently notice the moments when you retreat into silence, especially when what you truly need is connection.
Can you risk saying, “There’s something I want to talk about,” even if it feels vulnerable or uncertain? See what opens up when you take that first step.
Equally important: what happens when you offer your presence and listening as the first handhold, inviting someone else to share what’s on their heart?
Remember: Every act of honest reaching, whether to speak or to listen, becomes a handhold on the inner climb. Notice how it feels to reach out…and to be reached for, too.
Good News & Upcoming Events First, a little celebration: I’m so proud of three of my students who are working on essays to submit to the Memoir Showcase contest! It takes real courage to put our stories into the world—and I’m deeply inspired by their willingness to leap.
Write with Me!
Naked Writing Workshop Saturday, August 9, 2025, at 2 PM Village Books, Fairhaven (Bellingham, WA) We’ll explore juicy practices for presence and creative expression—no writing experience necessary, bring your curiosity, a notebook, and a pen. 👉 Reserve your spot
Write by Red Rock Wednesday, September 3, 2025, at 6 PM Summerlin Library, Las Vegas, NV Let’s gather and write beneath the desert sky. Free and open to all. 👉 Event info & RSVP
New Write Now Mind Session Starts Late August Craving a creative container to explore presence and authentic expression? Our next Write Now Mind series launches late August. Please let me know if you are interested.
Write by the Sea – Ongoing Mondays at 1 PM Pacific (by invitation, but ask if you are interested) An intimate weekly circle for those ready to meet the page—and themselves—with honesty, tenderness, and presence.
Our trusty Sprinter, “Moby Dick,” is parked at “Our Rock”—the one we scrambled up—though the more challenging ascent happened inside, in the quiet quest for truth.
Welcome to The Naked Nowletter! My community is for those seeking a deeper connection with their true essence and a more intimate relationship with themselves, others, and the unseen world. We explore authentic communication, connection, and what it means to get Naked in the Now. Each week, I share a personal story, enriching thoughts, and juicy practices—plus occasional links to articles that inspire presence and transformation.
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