Winter Awakening

Have your tears ever frozen on your face? Mine did twice on Thursday. 

It was an odd sensation. I felt the warmth of my tears welling up, and just as they started their gentle descent down the slope of my cheek, they hardened, momentarily permanent, refusing to be quickly wiped away, excused, forgotten. As often has happened the past couple of years, the tears weren’t triggered by anything in particular. It usually comes with a deep breath, a permissive opening in the body for feelings to take up space and refuse to be ignored.

I was sitting on the chairlift alone both times. It’s an intuitive response to squeeze my eyes shut when I start to cry. I don’t recommend doing that in -20ºF. My eyelashes froze instantaneously and began to stick together. Luckily I still had a few minutes on the chairlift to figure out how to pry my eyes open before it could have become a real problem.

This is my first time back in Canada after almost 2 years due to the pandemic. It’s typical that my family (and usually extended family) spend the holidays here, but this year it all is a little different. Extended family couldn’t make it, my sister got sick and can’t make it, we’re staying 2 weeks instead of the usual 5 days, the cold has been excruciating and so I’ve snowboarded less than usual.

My time on the mountain has mostly been going out alone, but it’s been oddly good. The day my tears froze twice, I was listening to music the whole time. For the first time in my 25 years of snowboarding, I had so much ease as I rode. I paid just enough attention to be safe and aware, but not enough attention to tense up as surfaces and pitches changed. Instead I was relaxed enough to trust me, trust my board, trust the moment. It was only the mountain and me, communicating without words, connecting without expectations.

Nobody to impress. Nothing to prove.

Silver Star has been a second home to me. Almost too familiar sometimes. There have been many iterations of being here, different seasons figuratively and quite literally—summer, fall, winter, spring; I’ve seen it all. As unique as each of those seasons have been, it’s easy for them to melt into each other, requiring a little extra effort to recall what happened, when, with whom—until now. There have been enough disruptions to the usual rhythms of being here that I think this trip will be distinct.

I’ve changed since I was last here, quite significantly so, and I’m still changing. For the first time in my life I am unfolding into myself.

Identity development in your mid-30s is scary, intimidating, vulnerable. Growing up in a strong family system and getting married at such a young age, I don’t know that I knew who I was as much I believed I did. I’ve been satisfied with my big, beautiful, life shared with so many incredible people and experiences over the years, but my default has been to fit within each of those instead of asking myself what I really like and want and need and believe and care about and love and desire.

For those of you than know me, know that I am, well, a big personality with unusual (sometimes concerning) quirks. That’s been consistent and I doubt if that will change (though I did shower today friends—starting off 2022 so fresh and so clean). What I’m referencing is beyond that—it’s about shifting from life happening to me to taking ownership of my life; a growing up if you will. 

There is stirring. As I’ve had to sit with recent feelings of being lost, in the midst of it I can sense that the sleeping soul within is looking to be found. 

I’m scared. Excited as well, but scared.

Never in my life have I engaged with something that I didn’t have some idea about what it is, how to do it, the potential outcomes and potential risks. Perfectionism. Control. Expectations. They’ve dictated so much of my life.

I guess I shouldn’t say never. Dating is the first thing that I’ve done with literally no clue what I was getting into. After a few months, I still don’t. This may seem silly (because it kind of is), but being on dating apps and learning to date for the first time in my life has given me the nudge I’ve needed for fully submitted self-discovery. Years and years and years have passed where I’ve dreamt of things, desired things, discovered things, designed things, but not put in the work necessary to breathe life into their lungs. It was a life after all—it was too much of a responsibility to risk its potential death. 

Everything precious has the risk of being lost. Is that reason enough to not lean into it, let it live, give it a full heart of love and dedication?

Though for a long time it was subconscious, my answer to that question was a resounding yes. Yes. It’s too much of a risk. The pain? The loss? The discomfort?

What if…
…I fail?
…I lose money?
…I make a fool of myself?
…I am disliked?
…I disappoint someone?
…I am recreating something that’s been done before?
…I have to give it up?
…I miss out on other things?
…I don’t feel fulfilled?

But what if…
…I never try?

This isn’t about anyone else but me. I have to live with the decisions that I’ve made (or not made). I have to take responsibility of my contribution (or lack thereof). 

Mary Oliver reminds us of our “one wild and precious life”. 

What am I waiting for? 

Winter has always been a time of quiet slumber. Shorter days, longer nights. The natural world slows and settles. It seems fitting that the new year happens in the midst of winter (at least for those of us in the Northern Hemisphere). The turning of a year has always tilled the soil within, uprooting in preparation for replanting. It doesn’t feel like coincidence that my tears and stirring and fear and feelings of being lost and willingness to trust the surrender are surfacing in the suspension between an ending and beginning of significant, sobering, surprising years. 

This winter, I sense an awakening. With the quieting comes space for intentional listening. With the resting comes energy for revitalization. With the freezing comes preservation for reflection. With the darkening comes the wonder that the tiny bright luminance of the stars offer as as they pierce the blanket of black sky. 

It may be winter now, but it won’t stay winter forever.

Tears will be restored to their usual way of releasing and returning. And me? Well, I may feel lost now, but I will be found. That’s my resilience. That’s my resolution. 

I’ve made it this far. So have you. What are we waiting for? Now is as good a time as any to begin again and again and again. 

Cheers to 2022, friends. Even with all that is unknown and uncertain, may we find courage and hope that as winter turns, so can we and that we don’t make this journey alone.