A clench, a tightening in my gut, and the sudden nausea, the scream inside my head, “no, no, I can’t hear this, please stop.” Rocky hillsides line the freeway, and although they are as familiar as they are unthreatening, I feel suddenly unsafe, at risk. Of what, I don’t know, perhaps a form of implosion, a caving in of my own structure. I can’t hear this anymore.

It contradicts—it attacks—almost every value I hold, it claws at my character, it eats away that which has held me upright my entire life. These conversations have taken too great a toll on me during the past four years.

We are in the canyon, ten minutes from the Nordic ski track, and I can barely contain my upset. I eek out the words, “this is hard for me to hear, I don’t want to be talking about this right now.”

“Right?” he says, then continues, more words flow past as we near the exit: QAnon, gun in her purse, committee, lawmaker, Georgia.

I can’t make eye contact. I must look as ill as I feel. I sense him turning his head to check on me—I’ve gone quiet—as comprehension dawns.

“So, Greg and Jeannie had a good ski up Millcreek last night, he got home soaked, but he’d had a great time—it snowed on them, they made it maybe two-thirds of the way to the top.”

My silent gratitude fills the car. the nausea recedes; a weak smile appears. I climb back out of the dread, the despair. Dust off my character.

Snow fell last night, seven inches, perhaps, and the parking lot holds few cars. We climb over the snow berm and follow deep boot tracks down the slope to the start of the track. It takes me longer than usual to clip boots to bindings. I work to dig snow from around the metal bar, and Tim uses the tip of his pole to assist. The bar can’t clip in if it’s surrounded by any kind of debris. Once the bar snugs down into the notch, I push down the lever and I’m in. Second boot, in. Snow flocks the hillsides, and lies thick on every exposed branch of the pines that line and dot the track. A coyote yips on the far hillside, then bays and yips his tale again. Thick gray clouds sit on the mountains to the south, to the east. Wind chills the air.

The track has been groomed, but it is soft and the few who’ve skied before us have churned more than firmed the snow. We glide, then pick up speed on the downhill and the gift of being here settles over me, the demand for focus to keep myself upright, to be efficient, to notice my poling, my knees, my breath. There is no room here for that which pulls me apart. There is simply beauty, delight, companionship. The drive to be the best I can be in these moments, while accepting that however I am, today, is just fine. What holds me together are foundational aspects of who I am: kind, compassionate, conscious, aware, able to see the big picture, willing to educate myself, able to hold two possibly conflicting thoughts at the same time.

The binding system for Nordic skis is incredibly simple. The notch, the bar, the lever pressed down to hold the bar in place. The toe of the boot is held firm, while the heel is free to move up and down to propel the ski forward on flat and uphill terrain. The system is well-designed, replete with efficiency and integrity. It’s a necessary foundation for skate skiing; I respect it and have learned to clean the bar. I know that without this piece I cannot experience what I wish to; I also know I must take care of it. I expect it only to do its job, but to do that job well.

So that I am then freed to do mine.

(title taken from an excellent article on cross country skiing in the Tahoe Trail Guide written by Jared “schoolboy” Manninen)