Watching skiing on television as a child, I remember being in awe thinking that skiing must be like flying. The opportunity to actually try this sport did not open up to me until I was in my late twenties and went with a group of friends to a ski resort in California. As we got closer to the area in our car, I remember being terrified of being set loose on a mountainside of snow.
My fear soon dissolved when I actually took lessons and got pulled by rope up the “bunny slope” and took my time with the group as we skied and fell and kept trying over and over, for a couple of days until we felt brave enough to ride the lift and try our luck among the more accomplished folks. There were also people who had less experience and one of them caught her ski on mine as we left the lift and it was I who fell. As the pain raced up my tailbone, she joked about my falling on my behind. I never graduated from the beginner level, but I did grow to enjoy my limited efforts on the slopes.
My niece enjoyed skiing to a much greater degree and with full support from her parents she developed the skill to a level that she became a competitive ski racer. She collected a drawer full of medals before she was twenty.
From the comfort of my favorite spot for watching television I am mesmerized by the Olympic level athletes as they fly across the screen in front of me at what looks like terrifying speeds on very steep terrains. I find I am holding my breath until they finish the courses and I am horrified if anyone falls and gets hurt.
The events for the night (night here but day in South Korea) end and I turn off the television set and spend a little time checking e-mail and things on the computer before settling down for the night. Images of figures flying through the air cross my sleep laden horizons and there I ski with them.
ponderingalongthemilkyway 