Since I was a little girl, I have skied… downhill… water… whatever you prefer.
But here’s the thing. I have always been TERRIFIED of skiing.
It may have had something to do with the 6am wakeup call, shoving steel cut old fashioned oats down my throat because “they stick to your stomach,” followed by the ever nauseating car ride, topped off with skiing till I could no longer feel my fingers or toes.
Or maybe it had something more to do with this:
Or the time I was run off the trail by a snowboarder…
Or the fact that since I’ve had my ankle surgery I have been terrified of re-injuring it.
Most recently, it is the fear of hurting myself and damaging my ability to run.
But nevertheless, about once a year for the last few years the mountains have called my name. There is something about the mountaintop. Several of those yearly escapades have taken place in Switzerland. Today’s destination is not quite so glamorous (and brings back memories of the time I came here with my family and spent the entire day puking in the parking lot). But the lure remains.
There is something about being “on top of the mountains where everything makes sense.”
Because somehow up here everything does make sense… the world slows down… problems and work are forgotten… and all that matters is the wind rushing past as I race down the hill.
I’m constantly afraid of falling. But for some reason I keep going, riding the lift up, and coming down the hill again and again. And isn’t life a little bit like that, a risk we dare to keep taking? A challenge worth facing?
Today I fell… and it wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it would be!