Slaying Fear
If Heaven is how I imagine, I’ll be skiing snow-covered mountains like Jonny Mosely minus the horrible intergalactic-looking boots and below-zero temperatures. (Don’t know Jonny Mosely? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9T4p6FZWVjo) Ever since my boys were little, we have found a way to spend at least a few days on the slopes each year. It’s a great family bonding experience.
After all, you get to clip ridiculously cumbersome boots - that look like they would need to be surgically removed - onto two long sticks. You then somehow glide in front of a moving chair-bench that scoops you up a mountain and empties you out on top. Once there, you proceed down said mountain at speeds that can absolutely destroy your body should you happen to fall. It’s great fun.
No really, I love to ski. I love riding the chair lifts and the conversations I have with my boys or with strangers when I ride solo. I love sharing stories of the run we just took or talking about which one to do next. I love the views and how it looks like diamonds were sprinkled over the snow on a sunny day. I love the bark of the aspen trees against a blue sky, and the pine trees thick with snow after a storm. I love the solitude as well as the camaraderie. I love everything about it... except for falling. I don’t fall often, but when I do it’s usually for something stupid like losing my balance in the lift line or catching my ski on an edge as I come to a stop.
This should have been a clue not to follow this girl down a mountain.
But this year? This year I fell. And I fell hard. My first mistake? Trying to keep up with my son’s girlfriend and her sister, who not only grew up in Colorado, but also spent their youth as ski racers. I’m from Indiana. The flatlands. And while I’ve been skiing for some years now, I do not ski moguls. I’ll do a few bumps here and there, and I love a nice, steep black diamond, but I simply don’t have the confidence or the strength and skill to pivot so quickly.
“Find your line,” they say.
“Pay attention to planting your poles,” they say.
“Aim high,” they say.
I don’t even know what that means. So you know what I say? I say, “Ohhhh shit!”
At least that’s what I said when I decided to follow my son’s girlfriend, her sister and her mother, who, by the way, used to work as a ski patrol, down a mogul-laden mountain a couple weeks ago. I thought I was getting the hang of it. I paid close attention to their lines (their path around each bump) as they effortlessly made it down and my boys followed with little to no problem. I felt the rush of actually skiing on top of and around the bumps. Just as I felt that exhilaration, I somehow hit a bump I hadn’t expected and inadvertently planted my pole behind me while the rest of my body continued to move down the mountain. My shoulder twisted in a way I didn’t know was possible and eventually I came to a halt.
I took a break for the rest of the day as the pain left me nauseous. Thankfully I was able to ski the next day, and although it still aches I’m fairly certain I just strained or pulled something that will heal in time.
I have a lot of mixed thoughts and emotions about that little incident. On one hand, I was mad. Not because I was never going to be a Jonny Mosely skier (expect maybe in Heaven), but I was mad that I missed skiing the rest of that day by doing something I didn’t have the confidence to do. I was mad that I missed out spending time with my boys and our friends. I also felt embarrassed and maybe even a little ashamed. Embarrassed because my boys had outskiied me and I was obviously the weakest link, and ashamed because I had failed to get in proper physical shape to keep up with them. In fact, had I been in better shape I may have been able to right myself on my skis instead of taking the fall.
I realized that underneath all of those emotions lay the one that birthed the rest. Fear. Fear caused me to tense up. Fear caused me to lose focus and worry that I would hurt myself. Fear had me lose the courage I needed to adequately conquer what was before me.
I hate to say it, but fear is the greatest debilitator of my life. In fact, the reason I'm writing this is to clear a hurdle of apprehension in writing at all. Last night someone sent me an email suggesting I write a book. I dream of writing a book, Friends. But fear tells me I have nothing worthwhile to say. I don’t have the right words to use. I’m not a real writer. So I freeze. I clam up and I fall. Once I fall, I call it quits so I don’t make a fool of myself even more than I already have, or hurt myself worse than I already hurt.
Let’s be real. I’m going to have to wait for Heaven to ski moguls like Jonny Mosely. I mean, my knees are not going to spring up and down like that in this lifetime. And that’s okay because I don’t have some unfulfilled dream to become an Olympian. But a book? A book has been stirring inside me for years. More than 20 years actually. So perhaps I will write the book, or maybe I will continue to plug away at this little blog. I’m not certain. I am certain that I need to slay fear, however. So tonight after two long, tiring days at work, I commited to writing this entry. And to further eliminate fear, I’m committing to build my confidence, get in (writing) shape, and set aside what others might think. And maybe writing a book is the dream that I’ll fulfill this side of Heaven.
