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As I watch Olympians soaring down mountain passes—through rocky chutes, over moguls, and around curvy bends in the trail—I yearn to hit the slopes. Of course, I don’t long to go 85 miles an hour, or to corkscrew upside-down in the air, or to crash!—as we’ve witnessed countless times this past week.
But I do imagine the joy I’ve known in six inches of fresh powder, the satisfaction of a successful run (i.e. making it to the bottom without a spill), and the peaceful whoosh and hiss of my skis as they turn.
I learned to ski in Junior High, at The Pines, in Valparaiso, Indiana. Back in the early 70s, the place only had a couple of runs and a rope tow; it has since closed. During my high school years, our family took annual winter ski trips to Wisconsin and Michigan. Eventually, I hit the “big time” with a couple of trips to Colorado, where I discovered the incomparable delight of mountain skiing.
My ski trips dwindled after I married a non-skier, though I must give Tom kudos for his valiant effort in trying. Skiing was also expensive for our family of six, so we only took some day trips and one long (excellent!) weekend adventure in Michigan.
Thankfully, with our oldest now living in Denver, I’ve been able to rekindle my love for the sport a couple of times in recent years.
I’ve been walking in snow a LOT this winter, and the crunch I hear and feel under my boots brings me back. I recall my heavy ski boots clunking heel-to-toe, toward the lodge for a hot chocolate break. I remember the relief at the end of an exhausting but exhilarating day on the slopes, when my street boots seem as light as feathers on my feet.
Best of all, I remember the rush of adrenaline I feel at the top of a mountain, with a long, winding run ahead of me. I push off, and I’m flying!
Except for when I’m not. On busy days—during school breaks, when everyone else has the same recreation idea—the ski runs seem so short compared to the long waits in between.
Reaching the bottom of the hill, we look for the shortest chairlift line. As we scoot forward from the back of the line to the front, the endless wait gives us more than enough time to catch our breath. I’ll chat with my ski partner—a friend or relative. Or, if I’m on my own, I might strike up a conversation with a stranger. Finally, we reach the front of the line.
We hustle to get in position—boots on the line, eyes and a hand back to catch the chair—and we’re off! We rise above the attendants, the crowds, and the towering pine trees below. Sometimes the ride is long and boring, the only entertainment being the skiers below. But it can also be refreshing to sit back and enjoy the view.
A break in the action gives us time to replenish our energy as we anticipate the next downhill adventure. We sit and wait and watch, as we slowly, finally approach the top of the hill.
It occurrs to me that the whole experience of skiing—both the soaring-down-the-mountain parts, and the waiting-in-line-and-sitting-in-the-slow-chairlift parts—is a lot like life. Doesn’t it seem we spend more time sitting and waiting in the valley than we do on the mountaintop?
(Don’t even get me started on falls, brusies, and torn knees! Unexpected calamities happen in both skiing and life. But that metaphor calls for a whole post of its own, so I’ll save it for another day.)
Exciting, mountaintop experiences—like travel, family celebrations, performances, graduations, weddings, and births of children and grandchildren—add much joy to our lives. Even small hilltop happenings—like a date night with your spouse, a chili cook-off, a sister weekend, or a home or craft project—give us small thrills.
But what about those wait times? The in-between, liminal spaces where we aren’t soaring, but are simply standing, sitting, and anticipating the next big rush?
Can we find joy in those times as well?
I think we not only can, but we should.
Just as I could strike up a conversation in the chairlift line, reaching out to others fills our liminal spaces with connection. My sisters and I share an online “sister chat” filled with ordinary chatter about our mundane lives. Text threads with our kids or my women’s group at church also connect me with those I love. And even chatting with the cashier in the checkout line adds cheerfulness and interest to both of our days.
The emptiness of ordinary days dissipates with connection.
Finding beauty in our work can also bring us joy. Just as I relished my view from the chairlift—a different perspective of the pine trees from above, we can seek to find joy in our daily grind. Perhaps cooking and dishes, laundry, and housecleaning should not be thought of as a “grind,” but instead, as blessings of food, clothing, and shelter. A positive perspective allows us to find contentment in everyday chores and responsibilities.
Even in our waiting for the next big thing, we can find joy in the little things.
Our time between adventures also offers us the gift of rest. When we have time to sit—to read, meditate, knit (insert your quiet pastime), watch a favorite show (or marvel at the Olympians), or listen to music—we replenish our energy.
Renewed and refreshed, we’re ready for our next run!
Giant slalom, anyone? 😅
What mountain- or hill-top experiences are you looking forward to?
How will you get the most out of your waiting time until then?
Did you enjoy this post? If so, don’t forget to hit the 🖤 !
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It’s Valentine’s Day! Do you want more depth and joy in your marriage relationship? Check out my all-time most popular post: “Keeping the Spark Alive: Five Secrets to Empty Nest Love.”
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Finally, congratulations to Kristi from Wisconsin, who won the drawing for a free copy of Empty-Nest Joyride! Thanks to all who participated by completing my reader survey. It’s never too late to share your thoughts. Doing so will make my day…thanks!