a Sport of Solitariness

I prefer to snowshoe as opposed to skiing. Mostly because I'm bad at skiing. Or rather, I don't ski. I don't know how. I have never gotten off the bunny slopes (there is an horrific video of me trying to ski at Vail no thanks to dad's home videos), and no amount of sheer will could overcome the weight of gravity that pulls me down to the icy ground. My sense of coordination fails to keep me moving, and my legs have no power to keep me upright. I lack the control that holds my body in check, no tension to flex the muscles necessary to hold my positions, no energy to power the drive. If I allow gravity to pull me down the slopes, I'm flailing like boneless jelly and have no control to pull myself together for a stop.

On the ice, I feel out of control. And self-conscious. I am at times a victim of gravity, and at times motionless, the only person standing still, frozen, in a sea of people active and energized, their skis whizzing along the ice and snow with determination and a sense of direction. They move their bodies, jumping on the lift and rising into the cold, biting air. They are suspended above the world, overlooking the snowy white landscape scattered with evergreens. At this elevation, the air is clear, cold, and the people down below are nameless, unrecognizable specks. The wind is still. Focused. Soundless gathering of energy, the tight control. Then... the answering push over and downward, swooping slopes and exhilarating momentum... The pull, the challenge, the freedom of flying by one's self, alone, released from trappings of words and expectations. Trees, rocks, snow, people blurring into one white landscape...

Rilke writes about living in a solitude that I envision can be just as white and vast, and I am enticed by the notion of being enshrouded in that lovely soundlessness. But I am a creature of bad habits. I thrive on moments of solitariness, yet I also crave the energy, the thrill, the hustle and bustle. Most of the time, though, I live in an imbalance of too much solitude or too much in the center of things. When I'm not frozen in the midst of the world, I'm either too long at the top of the slopes by myself, or am a tangled, uncontrollable, jumbled mess coming in full speed at the bottom of the hill without any mechanism to pull myself back in place.

One day, I will find that perfect speed down the slopes, relish the crisp air, gaze in wonder at the snow, languidly swish through the flashes of green trees, and then bring myself to a controlled stop when arriving at my point of destination.

That is what I will do. In my dreams. For now, I'm sticking with snowshoeing.