Whitefeather

During the 15 years that have passed since I first showed a student how to make pizza and french fries with their skis, I've taught every winter but one in some capacity. From full time to part time, from children as young as "almost three" to adults in their 70s, in communication via French, Spanglish and with gestures, on mountains near Taos, New Mexico, Wanaka, New Zealand and Jackson, Wyoming, and on beginner terrain and steep slopes to students with confidence and without. Some seasons I thought I'd turn teaching into a career - but in the last five years or so the refrain has been "I'll just do it this one last season" - and now I think I may have truly taught my last lesson.

Whitefeather is the name of the easiest way down the mountain at Taos Ski Valley, and it's the same run I graduated to on my second day ever skiing. The white feather has been a symbol of both cowardice and courage over the centuries and I fear it was named for the insult. However, to make your way down its three miles or so, from the point of view of the beginner, is truly an act of courage.

I love how a shifted perspective thrills me these days when I launch a small rock, even though I distinctly remember a challenging Whitefeather when I first skied it: steep, narrow and interminable. I recall the sensation when I ski down that run with my new students, an empathic, almost visceral memory of the excitement and nervousness, the failures and victories of successful turns, stops and collision aversion. When I teach new students, I appreciate where I have come from in my own learning journey as a skier, and it renews my hope that not all fears are here to stay.

The lesson I taught last week was neither abject failure or crowning glory to send me running or allow me to rest on albeit minimal laurels. What I saw that made me no longer wish to teach skiing is the generosity with which I nurture and encourage others, while withholding such positive sustenance from my own creativity. This is the missing piece that I've hoped to locate so I can finish the books I've started, rekindle the blog I barely gave a chance, or simply have a regular practice that I share with others.

This teenage girl had her first lesson the day before and finished the day on Strawberry Hill. It stands as a gate through which the beginner will ideally pass to ensure basic skills to ski the mountain with safety and enjoyment. Her fear had her gripped, and though she could stop and turn, her mind continually sabotaged her as she imagined one small disaster after another. She would make these tight turns that whipped her into increased speed and rather than take the risk to finish the turn, she'd sit down. When she could finish the turn, she'd slow down and instantly she'd look comfortable on her skis.

I played the coach and cheerleader, asking her to repeat "I can do it!" when she froze. I suggested that she visualize her way through the turn and to direct her gaze - "your whole head, not just your eyes" - to where she wanted to go, not to the ground, which leads to falling toward it. I coaxed, applauded and demonstrated how to create a succession of linked turns to find the fun in fluidity and speed control.

The day's goal had been to ski down TSV's other green run, which is in an entirely other league of "easy way down." Let's call it aqua or turquoise on the difficulty scale, since if you compared it to the terrain on almost any other mountain it would be designated blue or intermediate. We went for Whitefeather as the happy medium and she made it down, eventually. No injuries, no falls except the times when she dropped down to the safety of the snow. One turn at a time, she skied back to the bottom.

I envied the coaching I gave her. That's the piece that's been missing in my writing. I always felt goaded to be a better skier for the challenge in attempting new skills and terrain, and because I wanted to ski with my friends. I haven't found this in my own writing yet, but I'm on the hunt to find it within myself and nurture it into a fierce determination the likes of which I've known in skiing, travel, etc but never had for my writing practice. It's time to get out the pom poms, follow writers I admire down the metaphorical slopes, and wear my crown of white feathers with confidence and pride.

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Fail or succeed?

I learned how to ski as an adult, and learned to teach at the same time. Hired by the supervisor at the kid's ski school to help inside with parents and kiddos, fit skis and boots, and to clean the building after hours, it was with the understanding that if I tried skiing and liked it I'd be added to the roster of instructors. Not the typical route to become a skier or to teach it, but it just so happened that my own first day of skiing opened something wide in my mind and body and in a moment I became hooked.

I fell, oh how many times did I fall that day. Standing or walking in my secondhand ski boots, which are slippery and cumbersome footwear. In initial attempts to put on my skis I'd try to step into the binding, the ski would shy away and I'd splat onto the snow. I'd fall with the introduction of every new skill: sliding the skis into a triangle shape to stop, side step or herringbone walk, in turns - especially to the right - and traverses, pretty much a fall on average every 5-10 minutes. During my 4 hour intro lesson, I flopped to the ground as if I were boneless chicken, the sun blazed over head so I steamed through my clothes, the boots pinched my ankles, my rump and other parts a patchwork black and blue, and my emotions ran the gamut from thrilled to terrified.

A more sensible person might have conceded that she lacked some of the essential qualities of a skier - balance, coordination and grace - but I have rarely been identified as a sensible person.

I went back for more the next day, tired, bruised and hung over from celebrating the thrilling victory of having survived my first day of skiing. The entire class progressed beyond the Strawberry Hill beginner slope, though I know I was advanced with some reservations. We skied over to the #1 chair lift, which brought us to the main base area and a sign I'll paraphrase which has welcomed folk to Taos Ski Valley for decades: although the expert terrain, which is all you can see from here, is the better part of the mountain, TSV also has some fun and friendly beginner and intermediate terrain. So don't be scared. Maybe just a little.

I plonked my sore derriere into the chair lift and my heart clamored to jump out of my body via my throat. Ahead of me the mountain loomed larger and steeper as we ascended. There were people actually skiing below us, making more turns than I considered possible. I expected one or all of them to suddenly free fall into oblivion, and assured myself I'd never ski said terrain.

Short story told long: I survived my first green run aka "easiest way down" and from then on skiing often reigned over the known universe. I spent the rest of the winter guiding 3 year olds towards the ski life, and though it might have looked more like babysitting than coaching, I did bring my growing passion and knowledge of skiing to those kiddos, along with snow sculpture, hot chocolate and find-the-missing-mitten games.

Every free moment I had I slid down the mountain with ever increasing speed and daring, even if the skills were slower to arrive. Successes were achieved: first intermediate, advanced, then expert terrain runs, skiing in trees, through bumps, my first hike, race and stitches. Yes, I failed on occasion, but loved the exquisite sensation to be found in gliding over snow amongst the beauty of the southern Rockies. Minor crashes and injuries spiced the experience.

I spoke about failure in my previous post, and I realize that success and failure are inextricable and interdependent. I can achieve my goals only if I am willing to fail, and the avoidance of failure is in direct correlation to my ability to succeed. If I relinquish my attachment to the outcome of my endeavours, just as I did when I learned to ski, eventually I can succeed in almost anything I try, and love the times when I fail.

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Snowbird, Utah                        Photo by Joe Augusten

Failing is fun

After posting my last blog entry is August of last year - that's three seasons and eight months ago - I definitely considered Words and other adventures a failure. I started strong: 12 posts in June, 11 in July, and then I crashed to a halt with August's single post bemoaning the 16 days since I'd last shared an online confession. The months thereafter summed up... nothing, nada, rien, zilch, a fat zero. My determination, dedication and confidence fell into a huge sinkhole and I got lost inside its cavernous maw and didn't emerge until spring returned, goaded on, as always, by words.

Words clamoring to be shared, to exist somewhere removed from the inside of my too noisy brain, words that grow louder the more I dig my heels in and try to placate them, uhm, me, with any and every excuse. I will write later after I complete the list of chores a mile long, or in the morning when I'm not so tired, some day when I find a topic that's worthy. Words don't care about all that - they just ask me to define who I am, what I stand for, what I love, dream of, despair over, fear - so long as what I speak onto the page is authentic, radical, wholly an expression of me. No big deal, words.

This is the essence of creativity: it doesn't care that you are blocked, processing, ashamed, busy, afraid, or trying to lead a more serious life. As a part of a vast network of creation, our very nature is to create, whether it's in accord with a biological imperative or any other imperative that drives us. If we ignore this part of our self, we tend to suffer. A writer who doesn't write is a person with a head filled and spilled over with words.

I must not abstain from writing, from creating, in order to avoid failure. Mistakes, false starts, speed humps, potholes, detours and other obstacles line the road I travel, but in fact these forms of failure are in alignment with the creative process. The phrase "if at first you don't succeed..." does not end with give up. But it seems to me that in this area of my life, unlike in other parts, I have given up. Or had. I guess we'll just have to see.

For now, I acknowledge that failing is fun. Failing means an open door to new possibilities, perspectives, and actions. Failing means I can toss out what doesn't work and start renewed. As I acknowledge my failure, I can move on, let go, transform my experiment into something that works for me. So: more posts, keep it short, be okay that not every post is brilliant, and above all, have fun.

"Try again. Fail again. Fail better."

-- Samuel Beckett

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