by susan | Dec 31, 2022 | Uncategorized
on this last day of the year 2022, I went skate skiing. the forecast called for snow all day, with temperatures hovering right around freezing the entire time. some snow had fallen during the night, but the overnight temperatures barely slipped below freezing.
this is not ideal for the ski track.
nevertheless, I (quelle surprise) was determined to ski, and headed up the canyon, hoping to be skiing by the time the track was groomed.
this past year has brought me tremendous personal growth, and tremendous personal pain. I don’t remember much about who I was a year ago; I do know that the me who types this today is wiser, more capable, more accepting, and more able to connect with those who ache because of how much I’ve ached these past ten months. I thought I’d known loss and grief, but what I’ve learned is that each new experience of them has the opportunity to take one even deeper into pain and open up new places within. these new places offer opportunity to understand, connect with, and perhaps even silently speak to fellow humans who have similar, internal pain-created reservoirs.
the ski track this morning was less than ideal. the first thirty-minute stretch I skied hadn’t been groomed, was covered in a few inches of heavy, wet snow, and had been walked on and skied on a little, leaving a surface that was hard–tiring–to traverse. okay, exhausting. I then stayed on groomed trails which were much better, but still heavy and wet and soft ~ not things we love a ski track to be (we like smooth, firm, fast!).
it sleeted on me. the wind was fiercely in my face at times, and I felt battered.
and I kept going.
I grew up skiing, alpine, at ski resorts. my family would ski at night because passes were inexpensive (think colder than you can imagine). I skied when the family skied, and conditions weren’t always perfect.
then after college I became a spring skier, a nice-day-only skier. forget the freezing, blizzardy days. no way. I might go ski if it were nice out and someone I liked invited me.
and now, I find myself out there whether the sun is out or not, whether the track is great or not, or whether it’s zero degrees or thirty-five. I ski, I take what comes, I learn, I grow stronger. I let those less-than-ideal conditions work to help me become a better human.
as I was nearing the end of my session this morning, approaching the long stretch of trail back to my car that is a gradual descent and ever-so-appreciated, I was drawing the comparison of today’s ski with this past year. each has made me a better human. today, because I toughed it out and experienced our amazing world in its glory. this year, because I toughed it out and remembered to experience our amazing world in its glory.
life is sacred.
this year I haven’t always been at peace, or happy, or even content, but I know I’ve grown. my heart has been working to repair itself, and has, I believe, put itself back together even better than it was before. it feels bigger, and even more genuine, if that can be.
none of us know what this next year will bring us.
however, I hope you all are able to join me in letting go of the one at its end, to thank it for its lessons, to thank it for keeping us tethered to this earth, to express gratitude for its commitment to helping us become better humans.
namaste.
by susan | Mar 11, 2019 | Uncategorized
(from a work-in-progress)
I walk the desert, thinking of ocean.
anyone who’s spent time at the seashore has witnessed the drawback of water—the exposure of sand and detritus from the last wave, the deep breath of the ocean—before the next wave crashes against the beach’s sandy edge. an empty moment, purposeful, portentous. I imagine this as a metaphor in my life, that I am in the drawback, the removal of what had been in order to cleanse and prepare for what is next. that pause—an interminable dreamlike state that once ended, slips and disappears into folds of memory—which is filled with vision and clarity, the sharp pang of loneliness, self-scrutiny, despair, joy, a sense of dread that perhaps it will never end, and moments of delight painful in their intensity. a pause, an absence. a void that is not in any way a void.
what inspires this thought is a dry wash, a site of former storm run-off that is now a parched channel, cut into a shallow of the hillside. water, gushing, frothing and spilling over the edges; an image familiar yet likely not witnessed here during the past five months. water, precious is this part of the world, a gift from the storm gods. our mountains aren’t formed in a way that allows them to stretch high and poke heavy, moisture-laden clouds, causing them to unleash daily showers, like those in a part of Colorado I once knew. showers in Estes Park, where my grandparents’ cabin sat, were as dependable, each afternoon shortly after lunch, as the warm hug I’d receive from my grandma each morning. those showers enforced downtime, craft time, book time. how would this desert I’m in respond to a daily sprinkle of moisture? cacti may rot, flora might actually flower. dust would give up its rush to fill the air, would instead settle more deeply into companionship with neighbors and colleagues. wild horses would root out more to eat, with less energy expended in doing so. we pray for many things here in Utah, one of the most common being rain. we pray and wait, we sit in that absence.
if I rest in the drawback, take a deep breath, allow it to be, I feel sensation that speaks of both comfort and deep disquiet. fear, this must be fear, the unknown, the unlimited potential for harm. a lack of faith, rooted in what lies behind me, tries to overtake me. I breathe through it, remain in the present, press the toe of my shoe into the crumbling earth of the dry wash. moving my shoe back and forth, I soften the edge, smooth it. I can’t know what lies ahead; the only way to prepare for the unknown is to move deeper into oneself, to center, to ground. breath. footstep followed by footstep. om, mani padme hum.
the incoming wave could devour me; it could be meek and insufficient, leaving me unfulfilled, inducing yet another wandering path.
by susan | Feb 27, 2019 | Uncategorized
[the following is a reprint of a 2011 post on my blog, the tao of cycling, titled the great escape. the only changes I would make are in the second line: “five” now becomes “thirteen,” and to add that I now am with a new therapist who is even more streamlined and responsive than those who came before… ]
here’s a not-so-secret secret:
I have been in intensive therapy for the past almost-five years.
I’ve changed therapists a few times, from a rather heavy, stable, predictable gal to someone a little more streamlined and frosty, to my current therapist, a gal named ruby who is sleek and slender, sharp and responsive, understated yet subtly persuasive, and always ready and available for a session.
the best thing about my therapists is that they all–all–work outdoors. none of this sit-on-a-couch stuff. they’re into movement and nature, and they’ve all been extremely tolerant of less-than-perfect conditions.
they don’t mind getting a little wet.
they don’t mind cloudy skies and temperatures in the 40’s.
they don’t even seem to mind those 100 degree days, though I’m tempted to believe they prefer heading up canyons when the air gets that hot.
I’ve been with ruby for over two years now, and have spent so much time with her you’d think I wouldn’t need her anymore. but the thing with this kind of therapy is that it becomes a regular, almost standing, appointment. it’s more like yoga and meditation: daily practices that heal and soothe, center and relieve one of stress and anxiety.
ruby and her predecessors have helped me learn many things, not the least of which is that I am capable of more than I thought I was.
I’ve also learned:
- no matter how long the road before you, the only way to shorten it is to move forward.
- one’s mind will opt out long before one’s body will.
- the only way to get up a hill is to start pedaling, and keep doing so until you reach the top.
- the less baggage you carry, the easier it is to move forward.
- some baggage is necessary for self-care along the way. it’s okay to carry a little. it makes you who you are.
- rewards you earn are more enjoyable than those just given to you.
- we all need an escape at times.
- what hurts for a little while will ultimately make you a stronger person.
- it doesn’t matter whether those rivulets running down your cheek are tears, sweat, or a result of wind-irritated eyes. it’s all good.
- before you can go anywhere, you have to be where you are.
and then there is this:
all the training in the world won’t get you anywhere unless you possess and exercise some courage.
the initial investment in my therapy made me gulp, and changing therapists can be expensive, too. but the daily expenditure is minimal, and mental health is truly priceless.
by susan | Aug 31, 2015 | what I'm reading
like millions of other humans, I am curious about how to be in this world. how to balance my wants/needs/desires with those of the greater community, how to find my own “happy place,” how to accept things I don’t really wish to accept. over the years, I’ve read many books written by masters, by students, by yogis and wise ones and commonplace folk. in each I found something, but in those listed below, enough welled up to place the book on this list.
the four agreements, don miguel ruiz. everyone should read this book, and work to live by these agreements. everyone. I work, daily, toward better living them.
the alchemist, paulo coelho. I have read this at least a half dozen times, and each experience is as heartful as the first. be true to yourself.
the tao of pooh, benjamin huff. that is one wise bear, with a lovely sense of humor.
true love: a practice for awakening the heart, thich nhat hanh. everything this vietnamese zen buddhist writes is geared toward inner–and thus outer–peace.
traveling light: releasing the burdens you were never meant to bear, max lucado. lucado is a master teacher, and reading him helps me refine and re-find me.
I’d love to know what’s on your list ~ the only way we expand ourselves is through experience with other.
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