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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