More Than Words

"Words only cover the experience of living."

Barbara Kingsolver's observation still rings true a good 19 years after reading, "Animal Dreams," as a high school senior. It's all too easy to fall prey to the illusion that words are who I am. After all, they form our thoughts and communications. They pepper the music I listen to, and each book I enjoy reading wouldn't exist without them! Many linguists argue that a self does not really exist without language; yet, there is at least one week a year when the bounds of language stretch, and when words become pleasant companions, rather than demanding bosses or annoying houseguests.

Many of us in the SFL family struggle to explain the charge, the glow, and the spirit pervading an International ski week. "You just have to be there," is a common refrain, and, if "a picture is worth a thousand words," a lived experience is worth a million!

Have you ever tried describing the taste of hot chocolate? Stop reading and give it a go... right now!

The words don't quite do justice to your memory of the last mug of cocoa you savored, do they? And, if you are me, they will become lowly grovelers in the service of your tastebuds when enjoying the next one! That is what a week at SFL is; an elixir that invigorates, warms, and fortifies in me much that makes my days meaningful.

Over the past eight years, ski week has shifted and deepened in significance, marking the turning of the outer and inner seasons that shape my life. Some years (like my first SFL International event in 2010), I arrived full of words; words about the excitement and anxiety that accompanied trying something brand new, about whether I was using proper technique as I maneuvered my very first sit ski, and about the sound of skis shushing along a Soldier Hollow trail featuring decent powder and deep tracks. Other years, it's more like coming home at the end of a brutally long day that's lasted for months, knowing that laughter, love, and a certain kind of commitment to hard work and hard play will create the breathing room I've needed all year.

The start of the week finds me focused on my sit skiing technique and on my guide, exchanging ideas about what's working and what isn't. Good communication is critical to a successful ski, and the effort I put into articulating my needs and into developing an effective rapport can come back ten-fold as the week progresses. Often, by about the second or third day out, the conversations start to shift from technique to observations about life, to interests we share in common, or to other skiing adventures we may have had. Then, every now and again, I suddenly realize we've been skiing along (sometimes for moments on end) without having said anything much at all. These companionable silences often signal that my guide and I have really hit our stride, trusting one another enough to say what needs saying, and relaxing enough just to savor the stillness and quiet of the trail.

I try to think of a week at SFL as my "week of Yes." That short, little word carries a multi-leveled momentum: The word can burst forth emphatically when a fellow skier or guide across the Nordic Center's lunch table asks, "Are you having a good ski?" It sometimes means, "Yes, I'd love to sing songs with you by the fireplace!" It courses through my whole body when my guide and I are at the top of our game after skiing the first few K of the day, realizing I feel well enough to contemplate going out again, even if I end up calling it quits. On a day when fatigue or chronic pain yammers continually for my attention, "yes" can allow skiing to become a closed-focus meditation... the only thing I am doing, and all I need to do. I also find that an awesome ski week goes hand in hand with saying yes to vital self-care; so, even on a day when I may opt to ski lightly or not at all, I'm still saying yes, and my body thanks me for it the next time I pick up my poles.

A good day of skiing exhilarates me and makes me feel like a tuning fork, vibrating in synchrony with all that is good in the outdoors, in the camaraderie of the week, and in my own body (a perspective I usually struggle to achieve). A tough ski reminds me that doing one thing in the moment is often enough; that climbing this brutal hill requires just one, small, short pole thrust at a time and that, in fact, that is the only way I can keep from sliding backwards, and can reach the top. My guide's crucial support makes it nothing less than a team effort, and every successful ascent becomes a triumph we share in and celebrate together.

People sometimes ask how I cope with various life challenges. Before experiencing my first SFL ski week or subsequent ones, I used to think of wordy replies that involved a discussion of the finer points of mindfulness, or perhaps a cynical quip about not having much of a choice. These days, though I still resort to dry wit and to the truths I've come to know about living in The Now, I also go immediately to another kind of answer, altogether:

Temperatures are in the 20's, but there is no sign of the sun. I've already tipped over in my sit ski once today, and the shoulder I landed on is sore. The headache with which I woke demands more of my attention now. My guide and I are too far out on the trail to turn back, and the only option is to forge ahead to the lodge. While I set about inventing colorful phrases that might be a match for all this, my guide surprises me with just a couple words, referring to a shared, inside joke that makes me laugh out loud. This eases me into skiing forward again, still smiling. Though the following hill is so steep that my smile morphs into clenched teeth through which I curse like a sailor, we finally make the top. We stop to quaff from our water bottles before again picking up our poles. There is still way too far to go, yet something has shifted. My guide and I are in this together and, even though the trail is not being kind, I am still having one of the best days of my year simply because I am here, because we've "shown up," and because we keep skiing forward one outbreath and pole stroke at a time.

When memories like this are carried in my muscles - when the people I'm with help me come home to myself... when skiing becomes both an outward and an inward engagement with the things that matter... words finally become unnecessary.