While lightly pondering what I might write about this week, more stories and reflections involving snow came to mind. Then I wondered, in the very short life of this blog, how many times exactly have I made references to snow? I don’t know the definitive count but it seems to me “a lot” would be an appropriate summary. Of course, there is good reason for this: snow has been front and center in the landscape this winter. As a dear friend pointed out to me this morning, “we’re practically buried in snow”. Yes.
In the last week, I’ve turned a year older from the perspective that I’ve had another birthday. In reality, over the past week I’ve turned a day older 7 times, a minute older 10 080 times. For my birthday, I decided to spend some time outside among trees and sun (and snow)–something I value and enjoy doing. I also decided to try something new, something I am essentially a beginner at–wanting to also recognize and honour the value in this, which I also value: that of taking (healthy) risks (when appropriate and ready) and stretching oneself a bit outside the bounds of one’s usual zone of comfort or day-to-day norms. It felt symbolically meaningful to me to do this on my birthday–a day marking my birth and emergence as Tracy into this world. So I decided to do something I haven’t done in many, many years. I decided to go cross-country skiing and had the good and gracious fortune to be accompanied by a patient friend who is more experienced on cross-country skis than myself.
There was a lot of slipping and sliding around on my part, some impressive wipe outs, many more near wipe outs, somewhat exhilarating moments, and fear, and a few particularly lovely moments when we stopped under a canopy of coniferous trees and listened to the quiet of the day at that particular moment in that particular spot.
I will share one particularly humorous (and terrifying and embarrassing) scene and one just plain warm and fuzzy one adapted from a letter I wrote after the experience and about the day.
Scene One.
Setting: a conservation area near Kingston that had groomed trails for skiing (though also some openly ploughed parts, that is, ploughed and without neat little tracks for your skis). The trails were generally slippery, particularly on the open, trackless parts.
The scene basically begins with me heading down a hilly section without my full awareness — or any awareness at all — that I had just started skiing downhill. An implication of this is that I had neither prepared myself psychologically or physically for what had just begun. I had not had the chance to even try to remember how to approach this decline and quickly picked up speed. I likely let out a kind of semi-scream–though this was more likely a fusion of something between a groan and a scream. I was doing my best to slow down or have some control over what was happening with limited success. I was sure this was going to end in a solo crash, which was bad enough. Then, though, I looked ahead and realized that there was a tall man standing aways in front of me on the other track and at the top of a bit of an incline. He was standing, stopped, and taking all of this in. I was headed straight for him and realized I may very well plough right into him. That’s when I called out, “I am so sorry. I do not know what I’m doing.”
Somehow I managed to stop not too far from him and without falling–a truly amazing feat given my previous falls and speed and total clumsiness on these long sliding wings. I was feeling a combination of things: embarrassment; a certain energy coursing through me, the kind the comes in these situations when you are feeling out of control, going way too fast, and anticipating a crash ahead; slightly giddy–the whole thing was also quite humorous. I had my friend behind me, observing from the top of the decline. She had seen it coming. I hadn’t. She said, she thought I did great. She also undoubtedly found the situation entertaining; at the same time her support of me remained fully in tact. I cannot say the same of the man.
It was evident that the man didn’t seem to think it was particularly funny or even slightly amusing. Understandable, really. I got myself back on my side of the tracks and proceeded to begin making my way up the hill toward where he was standing. He proceeded to glide down the hill toward me. On the way past, he said to me, “Bend your knees.” He said this in such a tone as to imply: “if you just bend your knees, all your problems will be solved. It will be completely smooth sailing, no sweat.” To give myself credit here, I believe there was at least some bend in my knees, but I did make it a goal to bend my knees more. Anyway, he sailed passed me, knees nicely bent to prove, or proving, his point.
Then, though, there was a woman standing behind him, also waiting, also observing. She was completely stone-faced and seemed to refuse to make eye contact with me–though I also had to hike my way past her. She gave off the very clear look and vibe of: “I am not amused.” I tried to make contact, offered a smile, but her stern expression and lack of eye contact with me remained. She stayed right where she was, staring straight ahead as I shuffled my way up this little incline past her. However wrong I might be, I felt like she was trying to put me in my place–no beginners, near wipe outs, apologies, cheers, or laughter allowed. To be fair, and as the friend who was with me pointed out, it would be unfair of me to assume the woman was giving that expression because she was annoyed with me. There could have been other things going on.
I had to don courage and dignity and a sense of humour, I suppose. Then, off I was like Bambi to the next near wipe out or slip; or brief, sweet, tiny moment where I actually seemed to glide; or anxiety-provoking hill.
Scene Two.
Setting: another slippery hill. Action: another very near wipe-out on the way down.
This time, though, while I was getting myself untangled and trying to figure out how I was possibly going to get myself going again and get to the bottom of the hill okay, a two-person line up collected behind me–people waiting to proceed down the hill. I politey said to the first person in line that I would move out of the way. He had been observing my best attempts at getting myself organized to go down the hill again (read: he had observed me keeping myself upright and gripping the bank with struggle and substantial effort as if my life depended on it). I was untangling and organizing myself in tiny increments of movement and adjustment. Unlike in Scene One, he kindly, gently, and politely responded, “No, that’s okay. Just keep on doing what you’re doing.” So I did and, eventually, when I got to the bottom–miraculously still standing–and the coast was clear, he easily and comfortably glided down and past. He was pleasant toward another passer-by and seemed to be quite relaxed about it all and in a good mood. He gave off the vibe of warmth, compassion, and patience. I offer him my thanks for that.
End of scene two.
In briefest closing: yes, I was sore after that outing and yes, I was glad I went. I would, however, like to learn how to manage going down hills, and how, in general, to ski with more mastery of skill and with grace. Perhaps then, one day, while making my way downhill, I might instead call out with calm, “I am soaring like a seagull, ordinary and beautiful. I will not wipe out. I will simply land.”
What are five new things you might like to try? Make a list.
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