JANUARY 15, 2023 – Today the weather gods smiled, and gave a taste of spring-skiing. As I skated down the ski track, up and down dale, I noticed a number of weekenders on the course—friends on a lark; parents with young kids; older folks, gliding along slowly but surely. Citizen racers were few. Doubtless they crowded the region’s more challenging x-c trails, training hard and long for next month’s American Birkebeiner race.
On one of my circuits past the instructional area, I noticed a stream of parents and kids heading for sign-posts designating various age groups and abilities. Some of the kids skated around, exhibiting surprising proficiency and more important, joyfulness.
In the process, the friction of regret slowed the glide of my mood. Despite my life-long love of skiing, I’ve failed to turn a single family member into a committed x-c skier. In 2019, when our granddaughter was four, I signed her up for lessons in “Little Switzerland’s” ski school. When the instruction shifted from preliminaries indoors to actual skiing, however, she raised such vocal objections I feared that persistent attempts to override them would impose serious psychological damage on the screaming child. Thanks to the “C-words”—covid, cancer and compromised immunity—I’ve thus far missed any possibility of renewed efforts.
To add insult to regret, everyone in my family—spouse, siblings, nieces, in-laws—harbors a visceral disdain for all things winter, except snow on a Christmas card.
My ruefulness challenged the day’s sunny disposition as I skated past the overflowing ski school. Why, I wondered, despite our frequent outings, did our sons not “take” to x-c skiing? Why isn’t our granddaughter in that ski school, learning a delightful, life-long skill that blunts winter’s edge? Why does everyone in my family complain about winter? Conveniently, I ignored the hard reality that . . . my younger sister broke her leg skiing; all three of my violinist-sisters needed to keep their arms out of slings and their thumbs free from splints (sprained or broken thumbs being the most common ski injuries – I myself had to undergo surgery for repair of a snapped ulna ligament from a skiing accident); while x-c skiing, my wife fell and badly bruised her tailbone for a year-and-a-half of pain; all my elders understandably and necessarily fear slipping on winter ice and breaking bones.
Sulking in self-centered regret, I skied off the course and took a run down the backside of “St. Moritz.”
At the third turn, my memory flash-reversed to January 15, 2022. My wife was driving me home from an infusion appointment at the hospital. As she navigated through the raging blizzard, I complained about how lousy I felt. Skiing was far off the radar. My priorities were in extreme disruption. Survival was my only priority. Skiing wasn’t even among my wishes, because my sole wish was simply to live.
Today, for the rest of the run down St. Moritz—and my “victory lap” to log a full hour of skiing—I dispatched regret and basked in the sunshine of miracles: exactly one year after that day of despondency, I was skiing hard and long in glorious conditions . . . and for the 49th day of the season.
That’s more than a “glass half full.” It’s a cup without regret; one that runneth over.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
