Richard Grahn

The Climb

a cloud basks
in dawn's first rays . . .
the marsh is quiet
but for the wail
of a loon

Gabe always had an artist’s bent. Early on, he was a builder, a civil engineer. Whole cities with houses, tunnels, and waterways, anything you can construct with wet sand. He took up Lincoln Logs and Erector sets—forts with Ferris Wheels—and built a complete, detailed reproduction of the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, a Biblical activity suitable for the Sabbath. He created blanket forts, tree forts, snow forts, igloos, kites, and slings like the one that felled Goliath.

So, it began with invention. The important stuff revolved around how to pack and pile sand, hands scrubbed clean by the grains, knees wet and gritty. Or how to gauge the trajectory of a rock sailing through the air, the snap of the sling against his wrist.

When compelled to write, Gabe looked for a way out. That was one of the arts that would have to wait. Instead, it was all about interior design—rearranging the bedroom every other day, making sure all the stuffed animals were in just the right places, their colors arranged into patterns. 

following
the gurgling brook
in his mind . . .
forging a path
to the headwaters

Gabe’s parents couldn’t get along, so they shipped him to Maine where he climbed trees and roamed fields ripe with poetry: the sticky sap of white pine on his fingers, the tang of berries plucked from a field, sunsets to truly seal the day, and walls of rain to split the hovering sky. His falsetto voice rang out hymns in church or played them on his harmonica as he perched on the top of a tree.

Back and forth between relatives, dust never gathering on the wheels. Then came a girl—well, just a kiss, though the flirt would last through summer camp.

a honey bee
floats through the garden
then vanishes
into the folds
of a rose

Junior high was a combination of playing in the band and running. With running, Gabe flew like a bird over the terrain, his streamlined running shoes an extension of his body. Barely a thud on the grass as he sped his way to victory after victory, and with each victory came the urge to achieve more. Sometimes the wind was in his face, other times at his back. Either way, he was in tune with the wind, rain, sun, and snow.

Clarinet? Well, first it was a trombone with which he terrorized the family. Then he learned where to put his fingers on the clarinet and how to wet the reed with his saliva. He was out of tune with the band which played so loudly that no one could hear him, but he found a way to exhale into the instrument that created pleasing sounds, so he made up his own songs.

skipping stones
across the pond . . .
droplets
of late spring rain
on his brow

Then he found Susan. The universe took her away. There was only running left. Not knowing where to run, Gabe took his harmonica just in case.

gazing
at the desert's edge
compass pointing
into the wind
eyes filled with sand

Weightless, that’s how it felt. Unattached. Drifting toward his roots, then recoiling. The army fixed all that. They took away his harmonica and introduced him to marijuana, LSD, and meth. He responded by drawing pictures inside the drawer in his room, copying images from the covers on packets of papers he used when rolling joints.

the snap of a twig
in the evening twilight . . .
stars come out 
floating
as if from a dream

He landed on the street with his thumb out for a ride. Rode a long way from his own insides. A dandelion seed in the wind—nowhere to take root—until out of the mist, a hand drew him in. 

Gabe’s romance with education began when he enrolled in a summer drafting class at a nearby community college. Soon, he was a logic tutor.

The hand guided him back to his gifts and opened a world never before imagined. He completed a degree in fine arts and reconnected with music. A taste of normalcy. But the hand could not hold him.

Sex? Yes!
Drugs? Yes!
Rock 'n' Roll?
for whenever all else fails 
or whenever

Still, more school. Gabe churned out sculptures as if he was flipping burgers at the local diner. They wouldn’t all fit into his apartment, so he started giving them away. He moved to San Francisco and took up residence as a full-time artist, first for recreation and then commercially. With the dawn of home computing, he dove in, first with music. Then he made the mistake of buying some database software. Next thing you know, he was a computer programmer, art, all but forgotten. Programming would absorb his creativity for the next 15 years.

Then came the crash, this time plunging deep into the depression pool: a relationship gone awry, deaths, a job and its perks all lost, hospital stays—more than a couple of Jokers in his deck, everything gone—but just when it seemed most hopeless, something clicked.

dense fog
creeps through the valleys
of his mind . . .
a cat yowls 
on the mountain 

At 58, it was time for a change. First, the gift of a laptop while he was sequestered in a nursing home. He had already started writing poetry by hand in the hospital. With the computer, he compiled his first book of poetry and began working on a book about his crazy life. Soon, writing was an obsession—hours every day spent at the keyboard, everyone but his favorite nurse thinking he was completely mad.

The book caught up to his life in the nursing home about the time he was ready to discharge. He vowed that when that happened, he would finish the book and spend the rest of his life living as an artist.

And he’s doing that. It’s happening in an apartment the size of a hamster cage but it’s happening. When you’ve lost everything, everything is a blessing. Tell a man he can’t, and watch him do. Gabe is at the apex of his creativity. He has learned that doing doesn’t require running, that being himself is the best gift he can give. There is no more resistance against his nature. Each morning now, as age takes hold, he thanks his stars for another day. He’s learning to balance on a spinning earth, spreading his stories like pollen on a summer breeze.

a flutter
of oak leaves~~
the lightness
of shadows dancing 
in this Illinois sunset

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About the Author

Richard Grahn creates sculpture, painting, music, photography, poetry, and prose from his apartment in Evanston, Illinois. Creativity is his peace.