Cutting Trail

When I cross-country ski, I like to step into a previously cut trail. I take comfort in the smooth, clean parallel lines stretching out before me. My skis move easily and I glide, listening to the rhythmic sound of snow and ice raking against the sharp edges of my skis. I lack confidence when I ski and often worry that I won't be able to make it the whole way, that I'll grow tired long before the outing is over. I wonder things like "Do I look awkward?"and "Is it obvious that I don't know what I'm doing?" Hat, gloves, coat, snow pants, boots, skis, poles, anxiety and self-consciousness.

A cut trail makes it easier so I try. I step in and move and watch my skis the entire time to make sure that I stay in the lines.

Yesterday, I went skiing again and used the trail that had been cut the day before. We set out from the cabin and wound our way around the edges of the lake and I focused on my blue skis in the sparkling snow and fell into the usual rhythm, arms and legs, poles and skis all moving forward.

At one point, we were halfway around the lake and I realized that I was bored. My friends and I hadn't been chatting as we usually do and I didn't have a camera and just like that - I was done. I wasn't physically tired, just mentally done with the monotony. So, I stopped and looked around and decided I was just going to go back, that I was going to cut across the lake on my own. I told my friends and, as they continued around the edges, I turned and set out across the middle, towards the point of the island.

The snow had been blown down to a thin layer on the lake so I moved quickly at first. I focused on the point ahead and, as I got closer to the island, the snow deepened, covering my skis. I was cutting my own trail through deep snow and noticed the beauty of the brown marsh grass poking through endless white and the way the pine trees on the island seemed to stand watch. I laughed as I stumbled and lost my balance and there was no one there to see me, no one around to judge. I looked at the trees on the island that were stripped of leaves and remembered the way they looked last summer when they were green and rustling in the hot breeze. I reveled in the quiet hush of my own ragged breath and the movement of my skis.

And as I came around the point, I realized that when cutting my own trail, I had stopped watching my own feet.

In making my own way, I had laughed more, seen more, felt more.

I stood alone with my skis in deep, untouched snow and I closed my eyes and knew this was a lesson to remember.

Happy New Year!

2013 was the Year of Yes for me. It was my year to take small risks (though small risks always feel like big ones to me). I have never been someone to set goals, not that I don't have things I want to do or accomplish, I just don't often articulate those things. There is something so definite and intimidating about declarations. But I did have one goal in 2013 and that was to finish a draft of my manuscript and I did that.

I wonder if there is power in stating what you want to do, like a magical sprinkling of something unknown that leads you forward. I don't know but I find myself thinking of concrete goals for the coming year and wondering with excitement what the year might hold.

A brand new year stretches out before us like a blank notebook waiting for our words and images. Last year was the Year of Yes. What will I put down on it's pages? What will you?

Roasted Chestnuts in Portugal

It was November of 1999 and we were in Portugal to celebrate Luisa's 30th birthday. Turning 30 seemed to mark adulthood though, by that time, we had already been together six years and had bought our house.

This was our second trip to Portugal. The first had been in the summer of 1997 so this time felt different because it was colder and the nights came faster.

We spent time in Lisbon before going up north to visit Luisa's father and strolled around Belém which is one of my favorite areas. I had never been there in the evening before and there was something more peaceful about our walk. Maybe it felt that way because it was not the season for tourists but, in my memory, it felt quiet like a secret - something just for us.

Across from the Mosteiro dos Jerónimos and Pastéis de Belém, there is a park filled with fountains and gardens and walking paths. Luisa and I walked along a path and passed a chestnut vendor, an older man dressed in drab grays and browns standing at a cart. Luisa explained that the Portuguese celebrate São Martinho by tasting the wine from the previous year and eating roasted chestnuts.

She asked me if I liked chestnuts and I had to admit that I had never had one. I had grown up singing about chestnuts roasting on an open fire but had never seen or tasted one.

She bought some from the vendor and I watched as he rolled a sheet of newspaper into a cone, folded the bottom over and filled it with warm chestnuts. The steam from the chestnuts, the evening sky, my girlfriend so close I could feel her warmth - it was a cinematic moment and I was the playing the role of the young woman from Kansas in love and so far from home.

We sat on a park bench and Luisa peeled a chestnut and handed it to me. It tasted warm and sweet and buttery. It was beyond what I could have imagined when I sang those Christmas carols years before.

It's been 14 years since that night but every time I peel chestnuts for stuffing or sing about them roasting on an open fire, I remember that cool November night in Belém and the feel of newspaper in my hand and Luisa's shoulder against mine.

This post was written for Just Write. Check out Heather’s post and all the posts of all who joined in this week.