I have an active imagination. It is like an unruly animal that races around, dragging my emotions and hopes along with it, sometimes taking them on a wild fantasy ride, other times pulling them into a deep pit of despair. A recent episode showed me just how out of whack with reality my imagination can be.
Earlier in the week I received an e-mail from a synagogue announcing that Friday, March 13, was Shabbat Across Boulder County - people could sign up to host others or to be invited. Imagining that I might find myself at an enthusiastic and joyful Shabbat dinner with many other people, I asked the synagogue to find me a space in someone's home. Almost instantly, the organizer e-mailed me some information about my hosts and how they were wonderful people; he wrote that he'd leave it to them to send me details about the time.
I waited a day, and heard nothing. By Thursday evening, I was getting a bit concerned, so I sent the hosts an e-mail, asking for more information. By Friday morning, I still had not received a response, and my imagination started to spin sad stories about how their dinner was actually full, there had been a miscommunication between them and the synagogue, and they were too embarrassed to tell me so they were just ignoring me. And then, my imagination tamer showed up and said, "Well, maybe their e-mail is down, let's give them a call." So I called and left a message.
An hour later I received a call back from the wife. She sounded a bit breathless and disorganized, explaining that she had not checked her e-mail because she's busy mothering her 2 year old son. She told me that the other Shabbat guests had canceled, and it would just be me, her and her husband, her child, mother-in-law and her three dogs.
"Did I still want to come?" she asked.
"Sure," I said, even though that meant puncturing the fantasy balloon of a large Shabbat dinner. I did not have a backup plan and it was too late to make other arrangements.
"Well, all we do for Shabbat is say a few blessings," she added. I imagined that their minimalist ritual was due to the fact that they lacked a traditional Jewish background; perhaps they had returned to religion to raise a child but otherwise had no deep connection.
"That's OK with me," I replied. So this would not only not be a large dinner, it might not even be very Shabbat-like.
"And I'm not much of a housekeeper," she said. "Even though I'm sure I'll like you I'm not going to clean the house for you."
The last time someone from this congregation made that remark to me they had not been exaggerating. So I imagined that her home was covered with dog fur, strewn with toys, unwashed dishes piled in the sink and crumbs everywhere. Perhaps she was overwhelmed with motherhood and had let her house go to pot; in fact, my imagination went wild, conjuring images of a trailer park, with old tires and cars in the front yard.
I suppose this was the moment when I could have changed my mind. But something told me to go anyway.
"Not a problem," I said.
"Great. Is there anything that you don't or can't eat?" she asked.
"I don't eat pork," I said, figuring that I should not make any assumptions about how Jewish this family was.
"Oh, well! I was going to serve pork chops with a bacon reduction sauce," she quipped.
I burst out laughing.
"Well," I said, "you never know these days, what people will or won't eat. I hope I did not offend you."
"Not at all," she added. "I just wanted to be sure you weren't a vegan or had a gluten-free diet."
"Thanks for checking, I appreciate it."
"Do you eat sweets?" she asked.
"Absolutely!" I enthused.
"Do you like chocolate? Or would you prefer a fruit tart?" This woman was serious about dessert.
"Chocolate works for me," I said, thinking that would be end of it.
"Now, do you prefer chocolate mousse or something more solid, like chocolate cake?"
While pondering this very important question, I realized that it had been a long time since anyone had inquired so specifically about what I prefer. This stranger had been able to create some intimacy with me over our shared fondness for chocolate. For an instant, I felt a rush of love.
"Chocolate cake," I replied. "Thank you so much for asking."
We agreed that I would arrive between 6 and 7pm. And I thought that was the end of our phone calling.
In the late afternoon she called back to let me know to come closer to 7pm.
"Sure," I said, preparing not to speak to her again until arriving at her house.
Shortly after 6pm, while I was on the phone with a friend, she called again.
"What the...?" I wondered, feeling impatient at this interruption.
I took her call.
"Hi," I said, trying to disguise my annoyance. "What's up?"
"Do you eat cheese?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
"Great!" she replied. And I said I'd see her soon.
Within five minutes, she called again, interrupting my conversation once more. My blood was starting to boil.
"I just want to let you know," she exhaled, "that we are very casual for Shabbat. We don't dress up. We wear really comfortable clothes - like sweats or pajamas. So, I hope you are not dressed up."
At this point I was imagining this family sitting cross-legged in their sweatpants in a circle on the floor, the dogs running around, barking and stealing food from our plates, the Shabbat candles dripping wax onto the unvacuumed carpet, as if they belonged to some sloppy hippie commune. Not knowing what to expect, I had put on some of my favorite clothes that morning - not fancy, but not pj's either.
"Well, I am not planning to change before coming to your house," I said, trying to conceal my growing annoyance. "I am comfortable with what I am wearing and I hope you'll be comfortable, too."
That had to be the last of it, I thought, switching back to my other conversation.
But then minutes later she called AGAIN. I was starting to go ballistic.
"Yes?" I asked, a bit fearful of what she might say next. My imagination had already conjured the Shabbat from hell, yet at this point I could not easily back out.
"If you haven't left your studio yet, could you bring a piece of your art to show us?" she wondered.
"I'd be happy to bring you one of my business cards," I said, suppressing a growl. "I really don't wish to be doing show and tell on Shabbat. I am sure we'll have plenty to talk about."
The drive to their house was 40 minutes which gave me enough time to cool down and try to be present for whatever reality I'd be confronting when I'd ring their doorbell.
The home was, as far as I could tell, spotless. A carefully and beautifully arranged platter of cheeses, strawberries and blueberries was offered to me. The hosts wore jeans and while they were not dressed formally they were not slobs either. The dogs were well behaved and well-groomed. None of them seemed to shed a single hair. And over dinner, around a lovely table, it came up that the wife had attended yeshiva in her childhood - so, my imagination had been wrong about why they have a minimal Shabbat. And despite her flakiness on the telephone, I learned that the wife had had a successful career in finance.
While digging into the delicious chocolate cake, she and I discussed the series of phone calls we had had.
"You probably thought I was crazy," she said.
"Well, yes. And, based on what you told me, I imagined that your home was a disaster, and that is so far from the truth," I confessed. "You have a beautiful place." Later on she would show me her art collection, including a Warhol.
"I honor that you chose to come here tonight," she said, "I am not sure I would have made the same decision if I had been in your shoes."
Before long she and I were deeply immersed in a conversation about spirituality, personal growth, family dynamics, men and the choices we make. It turned out we had much more in common than a love of chocolate cake.
By this time her mother-in-law had left, her son was asleep and her husband had changed into his pajamas.
"Are you two going to be here when I get up in the morning?" he wondered, getting a drink from the kitchen.
It was after midnight when I finally left, my mind reeling from this newly forged connection. My imagination, chastened from having nearly led me astray with its fear-based stories, was curled up in the corner of my brain like a dog on its bed.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Incensed, Imitation, Immune, Integrity
Last summer when I first walked into the building where I’d soon be renting an art space, I was immediately struck by the camaraderie and welcoming attitude of the handful of artists I had met that day. These included a young woman who had her own line of hand painted pottery. She was very attractive in a conventional sense – svelte, blonde, blue eyed, with a bubbly personality and a dazzling smile. The product of a Southern upbringing, she was raised to be accommodating, non-confrontational and cheerful no matter what, maintaining a relentlessly positive view of each of her life’s circumstances and of other people’s behavior. She was all about fun – creating it, having it – and she did not seem to have room in her life for anything that would get in the way of a good time. She seemed immune to regrets, remorse or self-awareness of any kind. I have to admit that even I, a cynical, introspective and blunt-speaking Easterner was seduced by her charisma and upbeat persona. She was, in a sense, my Karmic opposite. Once I moved into the building, I often found myself wandering into her studio to chat about art, business and life and, perhaps, to have some of her unabated optimism and cheer rub off on me.
When she announced a few months ago that she’d be leaving to start another business in a new location, many in my building were crestfallen. “What will we do without her?” a few wondered out loud, anticipating the energetic void that she would leave behind.
All of the artists in the building strive to express themselves creatively, spending hours in their studios with paints, brushes, canvases and/or cameras, exploring new themes and subject matters or revisiting the same ones to create and deepen a body of work. And so many of us were wary and a bit disappointed when our soon-to-be departing studio mate revealed her new business: teaching groups of people how to reproduce particular paintings. Each session would focus on a different image – perhaps Monday nights one could sign up to paint apples, and Tuesdays one could sign up to paint a mountain scene, etc. And she was not shy about appropriating paintings she found online, tweaking them and using them as example paintings for her own prospective students/customers.
“What about copyright issues?” I asked her one day after popping into her studio where I saw her whipping up another painting for her new business.
“Oh, everyone does this,” she said blithely, as if appropriating another artist’s image was perfectly OK. As if to prove her point, she showed me four or five highly similar images online, created by different artists. It was hard to tell which was the original, which were derivative.
I returned to my studio feeling uncomfortable with her approach but knowing that it was really none of my business. Better to focus my attention on my own art. And taking a cue from her playbook, I tried to come up with a positive interpretation of what she was doing. Maybe her business, by having people copy art, would make the painting process accessible enough to encourage more people to do it for real.
And so I had left the matter rest gently, until she came by the other day with a postcard invitation for her grand opening. And one of the images on the card was, unmistakably, a reproduction of a painting created by one of the artists in our building, someone whose distinctive work is also hung in local galleries.
I could feel my inner prosecutor awakening from a long slumber, ready to argue, fists pumping in the air and spittle flying from her lips, in front of an imaginary judge that this woman, who stole an image from an established artist with whom she shared a cordial relationship for years, deserved nothing less than handing over all of her assets to the aggrieved party, public censure and being forced to close her business.
Yes, my inner prosecutor got a little worked up.
I shared my outrage with some others in my building and they pointed out that it was still none of my business. They said the only person who had a right to confront the Copycat was the artist whose work had been copied.
Even after the artist called the Copycat and asked her to remove that painting from her “portfolio”, which she agreed to do after explaining that she had made the painting out of admiration for the artist’s style, my inner prosecutor was still having a hard time dismissing this case. Considering she is a Southern Belle, the Copycat had a lot of chutzpah to, at times, refer to people in the building as family, say how hard it was going to be for her to leave all of us, and then "borrow" someone else’s art as she sashayed her mini-skirted butt out the door. And, ironically, as someone noted, the Copycat knocked off one of the few artists in the building who had the financial means and connections to pursue the matter legally if she had chosen that route.
What on earth had she been thinking?
Most likely she had not been.
I’ve been trying to shift into a softer position while identifying the source of my outrage. It is not simply that her lack of integrity offended me; she also symbolized some of what I detest in our culture, a culture that produces and rewards people who, like spiders, can spin a good story with flashing white smiles, flattering words and promises of fun or money.
When she announced a few months ago that she’d be leaving to start another business in a new location, many in my building were crestfallen. “What will we do without her?” a few wondered out loud, anticipating the energetic void that she would leave behind.
All of the artists in the building strive to express themselves creatively, spending hours in their studios with paints, brushes, canvases and/or cameras, exploring new themes and subject matters or revisiting the same ones to create and deepen a body of work. And so many of us were wary and a bit disappointed when our soon-to-be departing studio mate revealed her new business: teaching groups of people how to reproduce particular paintings. Each session would focus on a different image – perhaps Monday nights one could sign up to paint apples, and Tuesdays one could sign up to paint a mountain scene, etc. And she was not shy about appropriating paintings she found online, tweaking them and using them as example paintings for her own prospective students/customers.
“What about copyright issues?” I asked her one day after popping into her studio where I saw her whipping up another painting for her new business.
“Oh, everyone does this,” she said blithely, as if appropriating another artist’s image was perfectly OK. As if to prove her point, she showed me four or five highly similar images online, created by different artists. It was hard to tell which was the original, which were derivative.
I returned to my studio feeling uncomfortable with her approach but knowing that it was really none of my business. Better to focus my attention on my own art. And taking a cue from her playbook, I tried to come up with a positive interpretation of what she was doing. Maybe her business, by having people copy art, would make the painting process accessible enough to encourage more people to do it for real.
And so I had left the matter rest gently, until she came by the other day with a postcard invitation for her grand opening. And one of the images on the card was, unmistakably, a reproduction of a painting created by one of the artists in our building, someone whose distinctive work is also hung in local galleries.
I could feel my inner prosecutor awakening from a long slumber, ready to argue, fists pumping in the air and spittle flying from her lips, in front of an imaginary judge that this woman, who stole an image from an established artist with whom she shared a cordial relationship for years, deserved nothing less than handing over all of her assets to the aggrieved party, public censure and being forced to close her business.
Yes, my inner prosecutor got a little worked up.
I shared my outrage with some others in my building and they pointed out that it was still none of my business. They said the only person who had a right to confront the Copycat was the artist whose work had been copied.
Even after the artist called the Copycat and asked her to remove that painting from her “portfolio”, which she agreed to do after explaining that she had made the painting out of admiration for the artist’s style, my inner prosecutor was still having a hard time dismissing this case. Considering she is a Southern Belle, the Copycat had a lot of chutzpah to, at times, refer to people in the building as family, say how hard it was going to be for her to leave all of us, and then "borrow" someone else’s art as she sashayed her mini-skirted butt out the door. And, ironically, as someone noted, the Copycat knocked off one of the few artists in the building who had the financial means and connections to pursue the matter legally if she had chosen that route.
What on earth had she been thinking?
Most likely she had not been.
I’ve been trying to shift into a softer position while identifying the source of my outrage. It is not simply that her lack of integrity offended me; she also symbolized some of what I detest in our culture, a culture that produces and rewards people who, like spiders, can spin a good story with flashing white smiles, flattering words and promises of fun or money.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Intercourse
I suppose it was only a matter of time before I'd write a post with this word. The time has come. Although I live in a fairly urban neigbhorhood - by Denver standards - my apartment is surprisingly quiet. Rarely do cars or motorcycles speed down the street. My neighbors are not prone to throwing wild parties, blaring the television or having loud arguments. Occasionally I hear the scraping of skateboards against the asphalt between my building and the neighboring one - in fact, as I write this, some young boarder is creating an annoying racket, going back and forth and back and forth, practicing jumps.
But lately the more persistent sounds have been generated by the couple in the apartment below mine; judging by the duration and volume of bed squeaks, grunts and moans, they seem to enjoy a healthy sex life. Good for them. I have never met them, and don't wish to, as I'd rather not picture their faces the next time their carnal exertions crescendo, keeping me awake in the process.
But lately the more persistent sounds have been generated by the couple in the apartment below mine; judging by the duration and volume of bed squeaks, grunts and moans, they seem to enjoy a healthy sex life. Good for them. I have never met them, and don't wish to, as I'd rather not picture their faces the next time their carnal exertions crescendo, keeping me awake in the process.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Inauspicious
This word came to mind as I was nuking some leftovers on a microwave-safe plate and, a few seconds before the timer went off, I heard a loud snap. The plate had cracked almost exactly in half, a very clean break. Holding the two pieces together so that my food would not fall through the chasm, I dumped my dinner on a different, microwave-safe plate and tossed the other one into the trash. I wondered what "microwave-safe" meant in this context.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Insanely Intense...or Intensely Insane?
I am wondering which of these two phrases would more aptly describe my third telemark ski class. This weekend, unlike the previous two, my class - three students and two teachers - headed to the back country, meaning that there were no chairlifts to whisk us to the top of the mountain. Beginning at an elevation of 10,800 feet, we had to hoof it up ourselves, on skis, carrying heavy backpacks filled with all the supplies we'd need. In mine I stowed nearly three liters of water, chocolate, cheese, a sliced apple and a sandwich, a down jacket, extra mittens and a hat, a first aid kit, and a mini-version of my wallet. To keep the skis from slipping we adhered skins to them - long strips of fuzzy fabric with very sticky glue on them and hooks on both ends.
In the back country there are no toilets, either. After spending many minutes putting on our boots and skis at the trailhead, an ordeal in and of itself, I really had to go. So did the two other women in my group. We skied over to a semi-private cluster of trees and the instructor proceeded to pull down her Gore-Tex pants and pee just inches away from me. I wasn't sure if smelling a stranger's urine was the most auspicious way to start the day.
"So, should I go right here?" I asked, not really wanting everyone to watch.
"Oh, do you need privacy?" she replied, as if that were a very strange thing. She zipped her pants and ambled out of the way.
I did my thing, storing the used toilet paper in a ziploc bag brought for this purpose. In the back country, one does not leave a trace. I also tried to cover my output with some snow. Frankly, I was just glad to have peed on the snow and not on my clothing, a hazard when you're wearing stiff ski boots and can't squat that far.
Off we went, up a very steep trail. It was so steep I got stuck. The other instructor, L. a kindly elfin-like man in his late 60s, broke a less steep path for me. Off I trudged, my lungs already searing. Would I make it through the day? I wondered. Then a skin came off one of my skis. I dreaded having to remove my ski, re-attach the skin and put the ski back on. The bindings on telemark skis are tricky, as is bending over to affix the bindings. It is hard for me to get my body low enough to reach the binding and then to find the proper leverage to lock the damn thing in place.
This was going to be a long day.
L. looked at my skin and proclaimed that one of the hooks wasn't big enough, which is why it was slipping off my ski. He said we'd have to tape it on.
"I have duct tape," I said, eager to demonstrate that I had some back country expertise, even if I was physically unfit for a high altitude climb. Years ago, during wilderness training with the Appalachian Mountain Club, I learned to roll duct tape around my water bottle so I'd have it in case gear failed and needed to be patched together. I am happy to report that the duct tape was still sticky after spending 6-7 years wrapped around my bottle. I had removed my waterproof mitts and my fleece gloves to unpeel and tear the tape and when the repair was complete I could not find one of my fleece gloves - despite being black, and easily visible against snow, it apparently had vanished into thin air. Perhaps the mountain gods demanded a sacrifice for my safe passage? At least I had a spare pair in the pack, but it was not a confidence building moment to have lost something while standing still.
We continued our climb. Then my other skin fell off, but I decided to try to slip the hook back on and hope for the best. It occurred to me to be grateful for the failure of my rental gear as it gave me an excuse to stop and catch my breath. By this time the rest of our group had advanced further up the mountain, leaving me alone with L. and the chance for a private lesson. He patiently waited for me as I huffed and puffed up the slope, pausing every 10-15 steps to take deep breaths and prevent my heart from racing out of my body.
As other skiers passed us on the ascent, they asked me if I was on my second run. Second run? I'd be lucky to have one run, meaning a chance to ski down the mountain. And a few skiers passed us twice as I trudged, one foot at a time, up to the top. These fit folks had already climbed up, skied down, and were coming back for more.
During my humbling and painstaking ascent I reminded myself that to ski in fresh powder is supposedly so amazing that it's worth the price of admission which, in my case, was the persistent feeling that I was about to expire. "White gold" is how another instructor had described fresh powder last weekend, looking love struck as she spoke. And, indeed, there had been a bit of a "white gold rush" to the mountains today, as snowflakes descended from the heavens. A few drivers, eager to be the first to expierience this glorious substance before others ruined it, zipped past us along a snowy stretch of highway. Minutes later we saw two nearly totaled cars on either side of the road; no one appeared to be hurt, but one car had its front fender hanging by a thread and the other had it's right side severely dented and was tipped into a ditch. So much for rushing.
After a few hours L. and I had climbed 1,000 feet, which I thought was a respectable gain in elevation for someone who probably didn't belong there in the first place. Now came the reward - skiing down. We removed our skis, stripped off the skins, stowed them in our packs and replaced our now skiable skis. There was more than a foot of untrammeled snow all around.
The trick to telemark skiing is to weight both skis equally to keep oneself moving. Otherwise, if the weight shifts to one leg, one gets stuck in the snow. While my brain understood this principle, my body wasn't getting it. In fact, it takes a lot of practice for the body to really "get" how to balance its weight. Unlike the packed trails of a ski area which provide the sense of ground under one's skis, and allows one to "cheat" a bit on telemark skis, in deep snow the balancing allows one to float. In my case I spent most of my descent either sinking or, after very brief stretches of ski-like movement, falling.
Mostly onto my face.
This didn't hurt a bit - the snow was piled high, after all - but pushing myself into an upright position further drained me of energy, leaving me with very little reserve to actually concentrate on my telemark technique. L. was a very good sport - praising me every time I managed to stay upright, moving and balanced - and telling me I did a good job everytime I got up from a fall. Sometimes I just lay in the snow for a few minutes to recover. He was OK with that, too.
Although it had been grey and snowing on our drive up, by the time we were halfway down the mountain the sun had come out, revealing a pristine winter wonderland: tall thin pines blanketed with snow, even taller ridges capped with wind-swept curves of powder, all under a bright blue sky. That alone was motivation to keep going.
Somehow I made it back down to the trailhead, my thighs and lungs protesting the entire time.
Will I do this again?
I won't rule it out.
In the back country there are no toilets, either. After spending many minutes putting on our boots and skis at the trailhead, an ordeal in and of itself, I really had to go. So did the two other women in my group. We skied over to a semi-private cluster of trees and the instructor proceeded to pull down her Gore-Tex pants and pee just inches away from me. I wasn't sure if smelling a stranger's urine was the most auspicious way to start the day.
"So, should I go right here?" I asked, not really wanting everyone to watch.
"Oh, do you need privacy?" she replied, as if that were a very strange thing. She zipped her pants and ambled out of the way.
I did my thing, storing the used toilet paper in a ziploc bag brought for this purpose. In the back country, one does not leave a trace. I also tried to cover my output with some snow. Frankly, I was just glad to have peed on the snow and not on my clothing, a hazard when you're wearing stiff ski boots and can't squat that far.
Off we went, up a very steep trail. It was so steep I got stuck. The other instructor, L. a kindly elfin-like man in his late 60s, broke a less steep path for me. Off I trudged, my lungs already searing. Would I make it through the day? I wondered. Then a skin came off one of my skis. I dreaded having to remove my ski, re-attach the skin and put the ski back on. The bindings on telemark skis are tricky, as is bending over to affix the bindings. It is hard for me to get my body low enough to reach the binding and then to find the proper leverage to lock the damn thing in place.
This was going to be a long day.
L. looked at my skin and proclaimed that one of the hooks wasn't big enough, which is why it was slipping off my ski. He said we'd have to tape it on.
"I have duct tape," I said, eager to demonstrate that I had some back country expertise, even if I was physically unfit for a high altitude climb. Years ago, during wilderness training with the Appalachian Mountain Club, I learned to roll duct tape around my water bottle so I'd have it in case gear failed and needed to be patched together. I am happy to report that the duct tape was still sticky after spending 6-7 years wrapped around my bottle. I had removed my waterproof mitts and my fleece gloves to unpeel and tear the tape and when the repair was complete I could not find one of my fleece gloves - despite being black, and easily visible against snow, it apparently had vanished into thin air. Perhaps the mountain gods demanded a sacrifice for my safe passage? At least I had a spare pair in the pack, but it was not a confidence building moment to have lost something while standing still.
We continued our climb. Then my other skin fell off, but I decided to try to slip the hook back on and hope for the best. It occurred to me to be grateful for the failure of my rental gear as it gave me an excuse to stop and catch my breath. By this time the rest of our group had advanced further up the mountain, leaving me alone with L. and the chance for a private lesson. He patiently waited for me as I huffed and puffed up the slope, pausing every 10-15 steps to take deep breaths and prevent my heart from racing out of my body.
As other skiers passed us on the ascent, they asked me if I was on my second run. Second run? I'd be lucky to have one run, meaning a chance to ski down the mountain. And a few skiers passed us twice as I trudged, one foot at a time, up to the top. These fit folks had already climbed up, skied down, and were coming back for more.
During my humbling and painstaking ascent I reminded myself that to ski in fresh powder is supposedly so amazing that it's worth the price of admission which, in my case, was the persistent feeling that I was about to expire. "White gold" is how another instructor had described fresh powder last weekend, looking love struck as she spoke. And, indeed, there had been a bit of a "white gold rush" to the mountains today, as snowflakes descended from the heavens. A few drivers, eager to be the first to expierience this glorious substance before others ruined it, zipped past us along a snowy stretch of highway. Minutes later we saw two nearly totaled cars on either side of the road; no one appeared to be hurt, but one car had its front fender hanging by a thread and the other had it's right side severely dented and was tipped into a ditch. So much for rushing.
After a few hours L. and I had climbed 1,000 feet, which I thought was a respectable gain in elevation for someone who probably didn't belong there in the first place. Now came the reward - skiing down. We removed our skis, stripped off the skins, stowed them in our packs and replaced our now skiable skis. There was more than a foot of untrammeled snow all around.
The trick to telemark skiing is to weight both skis equally to keep oneself moving. Otherwise, if the weight shifts to one leg, one gets stuck in the snow. While my brain understood this principle, my body wasn't getting it. In fact, it takes a lot of practice for the body to really "get" how to balance its weight. Unlike the packed trails of a ski area which provide the sense of ground under one's skis, and allows one to "cheat" a bit on telemark skis, in deep snow the balancing allows one to float. In my case I spent most of my descent either sinking or, after very brief stretches of ski-like movement, falling.
Mostly onto my face.
This didn't hurt a bit - the snow was piled high, after all - but pushing myself into an upright position further drained me of energy, leaving me with very little reserve to actually concentrate on my telemark technique. L. was a very good sport - praising me every time I managed to stay upright, moving and balanced - and telling me I did a good job everytime I got up from a fall. Sometimes I just lay in the snow for a few minutes to recover. He was OK with that, too.
Although it had been grey and snowing on our drive up, by the time we were halfway down the mountain the sun had come out, revealing a pristine winter wonderland: tall thin pines blanketed with snow, even taller ridges capped with wind-swept curves of powder, all under a bright blue sky. That alone was motivation to keep going.
Somehow I made it back down to the trailhead, my thighs and lungs protesting the entire time.
Will I do this again?
I won't rule it out.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Invigorating, Intricacies, Immense
Towards the end of 2008 I joined the Colorado Mountain Club and in mid-December received my welcome packet and some printed trip listings. One of them was for the Telemark Ski School, a series of classes over four weekends in January. Something inside me stirred and said, "Sign up". I read more of the fine print and it turns out that one was supposed to have taken a pre-qualifying ski trip in late November or early December. Those dates had long passed and the registration deadline for the school was looming. I called the school's director to find out if I might be able to enroll anyway. The number I dialed rang and rang and then went dead. I phoned the Mountain Club to ask them if I could sign up without speaking to the director - that was not an option, but they thought I could reach him by e-mail. After making contact, I asked the director what the qualifying trips were all about. Turns out they were to assess stamina rather than skiing ability. I have more of the former than of the latter. He also mentioned that the classes are at high altitude - 10,000-12,000 feet - a factoid which gave me pause. I told him a bit about myself and he said I could sign up.
Despite my misgivings about the elevation, I decided to enroll. This would be an experiment and an adventure. I gave myself permission to drop out if at any point I felt uncomfortable, miserable or in danger. A few days before we hit the slopes my classmates and I attended an evening of classroom instruction to introduce us to the intricacies and subtleties of all the gear and equipment we would be using. Each of the presenters conveyed such a deep passion for their areas of expertise - the science behind the construction of Telemark skis and boots and the nuances of and reasons for each layer of protective clothing - that I felt I was in good hands. Armed with sheets of detailed handouts I went to REI's flagship store in downtown Denver to get fitted for rental gear. Although I had been there once before, I was still struck by the enormity of the place. The front doors, probably 10 feet tall, have ice axes for handles and frosted, glacieresque panes of glass. Inside, the ceilings are cavernous and all the gear is arranged on multiple levels. There is even a Starbucks.
I asked the greeter at the front door where the rentals were. After explaining to me that I had to go left, up a flight of stairs to the far end of the store, then take another set of stairs down to the basement, I asked her if the store comes with its own trail map.
"No," she quipped. "Getting around here is a GPS test."
Off I went, probably logging 1/3 mile in the process. Heeding the advice from the instructors, I spent about 45 minutes trying on ski boots to get a comfortable fit. It turned out that the largest women's boot was too small for my larger foot so I switched to men's. I did not find that Goldilocks pair - none of them were just right - but one set of boots came pretty close so I reserved them, some skis and poles, and hoped for the best.
The morning of my class I left my apartment at 6:40 a.m. and was treated to a delicious sunrise. Pink and orange streaked across the horizon, as if someone with large fingers had dipped them in brightly colored paint and playfully swooshed them across the pale blue sky. Ahead of me a glowing white circle of moon, as papery and translucent as a thinly cut radish, was setting over the mountains. That alone was worth the pain of an early start.
As my car climbed towards the Loveland Ski Area, I noticed that there was hardly any snow on the surrounding foothills, even upwards of 7,000 and 8,000 feet. The sky was blue and clear. It didn't look like winter at all and I wondered if we'd be skiing on manufactured snow. But as soon as I exited the highway, the weather changed. Wind blew snow across the road and I noticed that the outside temperature was a blustery 18 degrees, compared to 32 in Denver. The blue sky was no more - clouds and mist covered the mountains creating an ominous mood. After parking my car I quickly found the rest room and changed into my warmer ski pants then found our meeting spot at the lodge. Gathering with my group - the "Never Evers", as in, none of us had ever done Telemark before - we each discussed our goals for the day.
"To have complete mastery by lunchtime," I quipped, trying to conceal my fear and anxiety. One of the instructors laughed, the other looked at me like I was insane.
Maybe I was!
What was I, a mediocre skier even at low altitude, and someone who does not regularly exercise at high altitude, doing at 10,600 feet (and that was before getting on the lift)? I didn't really have a good answer.
"Seriously," I said, "My goal is simply to learn something new and have fun." That was all I could really expect since I hadn't been on downhill skis of any type in several years. I was hoping that, somehow, my ski memory would come back and my yoga practice would keep me balanced enough to avoid a bad fall.
They did. I managed to get on and off the chairlift quite gracefully and was able to ski the bunny slope without much incident. But my intention to have fun placed me in a Zen-like state of neutrality about the experience, where I wasn't tormenting myself about my abilities, my aging and aching joints or comparing myself to others. I could hear those thoughts but chose to turn down the volume. By treating my ski lesson as a meditation, rather than focusing on an agenda, I enjoyed myself and discovered that I was able to pretty much keep up with everyone else. And, even on a more terrifying slope, I was able to make it to the bottom without wiping out.
"You looked good!" said the instructor, skiing up behind me at one point on this steep slope where I had stopped to contemplate my next move. I noticed that that his comment, while appreciated, didn't send my self-esteem and mood soaring as it might have a few years ago. I was more interested in being with my own experience than in someone else's evaluation of it.
By staying in the moment, I realized at one point that I'd had enough and needed to stop. Despite drinking a lot of water and tea throughout the day I could feel the effects of high altitude: I was forgetting words, my brain felt sluggish and I was extremely fatigued. The others continued skiing and I did not beat myself up for not squeezing one last run out of the day. While waiting for the shuttle to take me the main lodge, I met the Director of Operations of the ski area. If I had not been fully present and focused, I would not have noticed his badge with name and title. And the second best part of the day, after the sunrise, was feeling truly appreciative of all the people who had supported my high altitude ski adventure - folks such as the parking lot attendants, lift operators and shuttle drivers - and I told this man that I really enjoyed my day there and I thanked him.
Despite my misgivings about the elevation, I decided to enroll. This would be an experiment and an adventure. I gave myself permission to drop out if at any point I felt uncomfortable, miserable or in danger. A few days before we hit the slopes my classmates and I attended an evening of classroom instruction to introduce us to the intricacies and subtleties of all the gear and equipment we would be using. Each of the presenters conveyed such a deep passion for their areas of expertise - the science behind the construction of Telemark skis and boots and the nuances of and reasons for each layer of protective clothing - that I felt I was in good hands. Armed with sheets of detailed handouts I went to REI's flagship store in downtown Denver to get fitted for rental gear. Although I had been there once before, I was still struck by the enormity of the place. The front doors, probably 10 feet tall, have ice axes for handles and frosted, glacieresque panes of glass. Inside, the ceilings are cavernous and all the gear is arranged on multiple levels. There is even a Starbucks.
I asked the greeter at the front door where the rentals were. After explaining to me that I had to go left, up a flight of stairs to the far end of the store, then take another set of stairs down to the basement, I asked her if the store comes with its own trail map.
"No," she quipped. "Getting around here is a GPS test."
Off I went, probably logging 1/3 mile in the process. Heeding the advice from the instructors, I spent about 45 minutes trying on ski boots to get a comfortable fit. It turned out that the largest women's boot was too small for my larger foot so I switched to men's. I did not find that Goldilocks pair - none of them were just right - but one set of boots came pretty close so I reserved them, some skis and poles, and hoped for the best.
The morning of my class I left my apartment at 6:40 a.m. and was treated to a delicious sunrise. Pink and orange streaked across the horizon, as if someone with large fingers had dipped them in brightly colored paint and playfully swooshed them across the pale blue sky. Ahead of me a glowing white circle of moon, as papery and translucent as a thinly cut radish, was setting over the mountains. That alone was worth the pain of an early start.
As my car climbed towards the Loveland Ski Area, I noticed that there was hardly any snow on the surrounding foothills, even upwards of 7,000 and 8,000 feet. The sky was blue and clear. It didn't look like winter at all and I wondered if we'd be skiing on manufactured snow. But as soon as I exited the highway, the weather changed. Wind blew snow across the road and I noticed that the outside temperature was a blustery 18 degrees, compared to 32 in Denver. The blue sky was no more - clouds and mist covered the mountains creating an ominous mood. After parking my car I quickly found the rest room and changed into my warmer ski pants then found our meeting spot at the lodge. Gathering with my group - the "Never Evers", as in, none of us had ever done Telemark before - we each discussed our goals for the day.
"To have complete mastery by lunchtime," I quipped, trying to conceal my fear and anxiety. One of the instructors laughed, the other looked at me like I was insane.
Maybe I was!
What was I, a mediocre skier even at low altitude, and someone who does not regularly exercise at high altitude, doing at 10,600 feet (and that was before getting on the lift)? I didn't really have a good answer.
"Seriously," I said, "My goal is simply to learn something new and have fun." That was all I could really expect since I hadn't been on downhill skis of any type in several years. I was hoping that, somehow, my ski memory would come back and my yoga practice would keep me balanced enough to avoid a bad fall.
They did. I managed to get on and off the chairlift quite gracefully and was able to ski the bunny slope without much incident. But my intention to have fun placed me in a Zen-like state of neutrality about the experience, where I wasn't tormenting myself about my abilities, my aging and aching joints or comparing myself to others. I could hear those thoughts but chose to turn down the volume. By treating my ski lesson as a meditation, rather than focusing on an agenda, I enjoyed myself and discovered that I was able to pretty much keep up with everyone else. And, even on a more terrifying slope, I was able to make it to the bottom without wiping out.
"You looked good!" said the instructor, skiing up behind me at one point on this steep slope where I had stopped to contemplate my next move. I noticed that that his comment, while appreciated, didn't send my self-esteem and mood soaring as it might have a few years ago. I was more interested in being with my own experience than in someone else's evaluation of it.
By staying in the moment, I realized at one point that I'd had enough and needed to stop. Despite drinking a lot of water and tea throughout the day I could feel the effects of high altitude: I was forgetting words, my brain felt sluggish and I was extremely fatigued. The others continued skiing and I did not beat myself up for not squeezing one last run out of the day. While waiting for the shuttle to take me the main lodge, I met the Director of Operations of the ski area. If I had not been fully present and focused, I would not have noticed his badge with name and title. And the second best part of the day, after the sunrise, was feeling truly appreciative of all the people who had supported my high altitude ski adventure - folks such as the parking lot attendants, lift operators and shuttle drivers - and I told this man that I really enjoyed my day there and I thanked him.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Improbable, Impatience
On Thursday evening I was a passenger in a car heading from Denver to Boulder, about 30 miles away. Four of us - myself, a new acquaintance, J., and two of her friends, R. and W. - were traveling to a potluck holiday party at the home of a Ghanaian gentleman who runs a group that uses African singing to facilitate personal growth. Loving food and song, I was up for this adventure.
Within minutes of hitting the highway I'd learned that the driver, R., was struggling against an extraordinarily rare form of cancer, a tumor in her spine, as well as battling the health care establishment that had initially refused her request for an MRI. And the woman sharing the back seat with me, W., had, just weeks before, lost her brother to gang warfare in Kansas City (he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and was caught in crossfire).
It was as if the Universe had whacked me over the head with a two by four to remind me that I should not take a precious moment of life - mine or anyone else's - for granted. It really can end at any minute.
Several hours of overindulging in food, singing, clapping and listening to this Ghanaian guru translate the songs into contemporary spiritual language left me a bit groggy and eager to go home by the time the party ended, at around 10 p.m. Except the four of us had not discussed or agreed to a mutually acceptable departure time. The driver was deeply engaged in conversation and, it being her first night out after a recent and unsuccessful surgery, was not eager or ready to leave. Meanwhile, W. was becoming increasingly irritated and impatient - she thought we'd be heading home by 9pm. She and I went outside to enjoy some cooler air and to cool our heels.
"I can't believe she isn't taking our feelings into account!" she fumed as we circumnavigated the snow covered parking lot outside his apartment for the third time. "I would never do this, if I were the one driving."
Well, I probably wouldn't either, but at that moment there was not much we could do about it, except to ask J., who had coordinated this expedition, to keep reminding the driver that we were waiting.
"Yeah, well, this situation reminds me why I don't normally like to carpool," I said, trying to be conciliatory without escalating the complaint-fest about R. who, possibly, might not be alive much longer. "I'm used to coming and going when I please."
By the time the driver emerged from the party 30 minutes had passed and what had been refreshingly cool air had become uncomfortably cold. We piled into the car and J. apologized for not bringing up the issue of departure time in advance.
"Don't worry about it," the rest of us muttered.
We were headed home and that was all that mattered.
Within minutes of hitting the highway I'd learned that the driver, R., was struggling against an extraordinarily rare form of cancer, a tumor in her spine, as well as battling the health care establishment that had initially refused her request for an MRI. And the woman sharing the back seat with me, W., had, just weeks before, lost her brother to gang warfare in Kansas City (he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and was caught in crossfire).
It was as if the Universe had whacked me over the head with a two by four to remind me that I should not take a precious moment of life - mine or anyone else's - for granted. It really can end at any minute.
Several hours of overindulging in food, singing, clapping and listening to this Ghanaian guru translate the songs into contemporary spiritual language left me a bit groggy and eager to go home by the time the party ended, at around 10 p.m. Except the four of us had not discussed or agreed to a mutually acceptable departure time. The driver was deeply engaged in conversation and, it being her first night out after a recent and unsuccessful surgery, was not eager or ready to leave. Meanwhile, W. was becoming increasingly irritated and impatient - she thought we'd be heading home by 9pm. She and I went outside to enjoy some cooler air and to cool our heels.
"I can't believe she isn't taking our feelings into account!" she fumed as we circumnavigated the snow covered parking lot outside his apartment for the third time. "I would never do this, if I were the one driving."
Well, I probably wouldn't either, but at that moment there was not much we could do about it, except to ask J., who had coordinated this expedition, to keep reminding the driver that we were waiting.
"Yeah, well, this situation reminds me why I don't normally like to carpool," I said, trying to be conciliatory without escalating the complaint-fest about R. who, possibly, might not be alive much longer. "I'm used to coming and going when I please."
By the time the driver emerged from the party 30 minutes had passed and what had been refreshingly cool air had become uncomfortably cold. We piled into the car and J. apologized for not bringing up the issue of departure time in advance.
"Don't worry about it," the rest of us muttered.
We were headed home and that was all that mattered.
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