There are parts of town where you can see them and they are still topped with snow. The mountains make me feel so tiny and that all my hang-ups and complexes are insignificant in the grand scheme of things, while at the same time they make me feel very much alive and an essential part of something big and mostly magical. Who doesn’t want to feel alive and part of something magical? I do!
I keep thinking of our ski trip. The silent moment in the lift, with my beautiful, magical son. Sharing squares of chocolate, wiping our noses, and the time still and slow until we reach the top. Then the thrill of the slope, the bright white snow and the crisp cool air and the lightness in your chest as you pick up speed. That crystalline moment when your mind is both full and blank and all you feel is lightness filling you up and washing you out. You are connected to the mountain and the snow, and your son and the sky, and the satisfying sound of skis scratching snow. It all fits together so perfectly, perfectly. You are awake and alive and life can be very, very good sometimes, and everything might be always in transformation and nothing stays the same, but who is thinking about that anyway when the sun shines so gloriously the way it does in the mountains?
That’s it. You’ve reached the bottom. Your son squeezes your gloved hand through his, and you can’t see his eyes behind his goggles, but you know he feels it too.