Days of the New

I leaned out over the cliff face and looked down. Far, far below someone was hanging onto a rope with one hand, wildly swaying in the wind buffeting the mountain. It was raining and hailing and sleeting, and lightening was striking the rock face, dislodging big pieces of rubble which were bouncing off the guy, who was actually grasping the rope with a couple of fingers, not even a whole hand.


What did I do? I yelled down: "Nice to see you! Hang in there -- it'll be better tomorrow!" It even sounded ridiculous to me and I'm a master of the ridiculous statement.

That's what it feels like when I talk to a new person. That's what it was like for me when I was new. Most of the time my advice feels ridiculously inadequate. I want to help but there's really not a whole hell of a lot I can do, to be honest about it. Sometimes, when I come back the next day, I see the guy has hoisted himself up a foot or so. He is still way down there, though, and now some cops and family members and employers are there, throwing rocks at him and trying to shock him with a taser and fry him with a flamethrower. One ex-wife is hacking at the rope with a sharp knife. That's how it felt to me. It didn't get better at first, it seemed to get worse.


"You're doing great!" I screamed into the shrieking wind. "Keep coming back!"