Here I sit
They’ve all left. In a happy bustle of boots, coats, ski pants, and packed lunches, they spilled out the door and piled into two cars to make their way to the mountain. It’s my daughter’s birthday and almost a year ago she invited my husband and me to spend a ski weekend with her friends to celebrate.
Here I sit. The large house is empty and quiet and more than a little cold. A year ago I imagined that I’d again be excited to ski. That I would no longer be worried about falling and hurting myself. That I would have freed myself from the disappointment I felt two years ago when I stepped onto skis for the first time in ten years only to discover that it wasn’t “just like riding a bicycle” – at least for me.
Here I sit wondering why I’m sitting here
Here I sit. Here at home where my mother sat every time the pack of us spilled happily out the door for another day on the slopes. Here I sit, wondering “How did this happen?” Wondering if I have been left behind or if somehow I left myself behind?
This weekend is like countless winter weekends over the last 20 years that I’ve spent in New Hampshire crowded into my family’s lake house, the mudroom a sea of outerwear, ski boots lined up in front of the fireplace. Yet, for me, this weekend has been nothing like those past weekends. Oddly, I chose this change.
My choice not to ski this weekend was all mine. In fact, I leapt at it. As soon as I realized that my daughter’s friends did not need me to share a ski lesson with them, I gleefully squealed to myself, “I don’t have to ski!!!” I was so committed to my choice that I didn’t pack any of my gear. Changing my mind this weekend has simply not been an option.
Yet instead of feeling the spaciousness of a quiet day in a quiet house with nothing to do but whatever I want to do, I feel wistful. I feel a little lonely. I feel a lot unsettled. I didn’t expect to feel like I’d stepped into my mother’s spectator shoes. The question “Is this what I want?” keeps cycling through my head. This is a good question. And the answer is easy: No.
Fear is why I’m sitting here
Perhaps a better question – one that can help me understand why I chose something I now wish I hadn’t chosen – is “Why did I choose to sit this ski weekend out?” The answer to this is also easy: I was afraid.
Is my fear of falling and hurting myself real? One hundred percent. Over the last several years I have developed a debilitating phobia of slipping and falling on ice. Yet, every time I find myself creeping across possible ice patches on a sidewalk like a frail nonagenarian, I know it’s ridiculous. I have said out loud dozens of times, “I hate this. I don’t want to live hampered this way.”
Fear does not have to be the boss of me (or you)
As I sit here in this quiet house, this weekend feels like a billboard-sized example of what life is like when we allow fear to dictate our choices. If this is what it’s like, I don’t want to choose this again. I don’t want to miss out on the fun. I want to be a part of the happy bustle of people bundled up and heading to the mountain.
The great yoga teacher, B.K.S. Iyengar taught, “failure is simply an invitation to more practice.” He knew that in practice and in life, we are always (always!) offered another chance to do things differently – perhaps do them even better. In other words, I will definitely have more chances to navigate this fear of mine. Curiously, while this would have felt threatening two days ago, today it feels filled with possibility.
How do I get from here to there? How do I get from a fear-filled choice to a life-filled choice? How do I get myself back into my ski gear?
I am wiser for having wimped out
I feel like I’ve taken the first huge step already. I am now wholly aware that, though I thought this fear of mine was keeping me safe, it is really limiting me. This awareness does not make me miraculously unafraid. But, I trust, it will change the way I handle my fear the next time I feel it. In other words, I am wiser for having wimped out.
Today I know for sure that acquiescing to this fear didn’t free me from it at all – in fact, it left me sitting here in its aftermath wondering what exactly happened. I also know for sure that this experience will empower me to choose differently next time.
Do any of you want to join me for a few “remedial” ski lessons?
Abhinivesa is the fifth of the kleshas (causes of human suffering). Abhinivesa means fear of death (which doesn’t feel extreme when I think of the intensity of my fear of falling) or fear of change. However, fear itself can be a form of death as it sucks the joy of living out of life (as it did for me this ski weekend). Experiencing this for yourself is a great way to inspire you to choose change rather than to fear it.