Fearful, but Free

    I inhale the cold, crisp air. The snow is under my skis. I slide off the chair lift and glide over to the top of the mountain to my launching spot. . . and just like each time before, I pause- fear rushing through me, over me, into my belly. 

    You can do this. 

    You can do this. 

    You've done this how many times today. 

    Practice your turns. 

    Bend your knees. 

    You can do this.

    Often I stop and watch the children ski; their small bodies speed down the mountain; their hands in the air. I imagine exhilaration on their faces. They don't know fear. They're not afraid of sustaining an injury. 

    Taking up skiing as an adult has been an interesting experience. I am in tune with my body, with my legs and, especially, with my knees, in a way that I never had to be before. I pay attention to every crick, creak, and twinge. The last thing I want to do is injure myself. 

 Yet, I continue to sneak away to the mountain, to practice, to encourage myself. Each time I go, I get better. I will never be fearless. But I am free to enjoy myself, free to push fear aside, to push myself down the slope, to feel the icy wind on my cheeks, to feel the fear leave my belly as I glide, gracefully, and sometimes slowly, always carefully, down the sloping snow-covered mountain.