Blown Away

The windows rattle and the house rumbles and shakes. The cans on garbage day are blown along the street as neighbors chase them down in their PJ’s. The wind has been blowing strong and constant as it always does this time of year in the Portland area. In this particular instance it’s been blustering for three weeks straight. The east side is infamous for it’s east wind and it’s a constant complaint of my mother’s. I’ve been laying in bed at night listening to it roar like a stormy sea. It swirls around the house like angry ghosts, mirroring the thoughts in my head.

Atmospheric differentials east and west of the Cascade mountain range create a wind funnel through the high cliffs of the Columbia River Gorge that divide Oregon and Washington. Up to 100 mph gusts can shoot out its west end like a giant meteorological fart. News reporters brace themselves in front their cameras and are inevitably knocked to the ground by a massive blast. At times, I’m surprised mom’s house still stands at the end of each day. I half expect to see a green faced Margaret Hamilton cackling by in her black cape and pointy hat as Toto barks and runs around my bed.

I have a lot of time on my hands at the moment. Out of work, housed in the ‘burbs, and practically no social life, I do a lot of thinking. Yes, I know, thinking too much is dangerous but it can’t be helped at this juncture. Where is my future going, what kind of work will I be doing, where will I live — those kinds of things. But what I find most predominant at the beginning of this shiny new 2010 is that I’m thinking a lot about disappointment.

From the simple day-to-day run-in’s, to feelings expressed and not kept, to love left unfinished, to family resentment, to friends gone AWOL — and let’s not forget about the state of the world in general. I can’t seem to get it all out of my mind. I guess I chalk it up to transition drama with a smidgen of isolation. I’m cleaning out my mental attic. Throwing away the old stuff that’s long finished. Tossing out the broken items. And holding on to what has value. I can truly be a sentimental pack rat. I am better than I used to be about not holding onto things, but still definitely a collector.

But what is beginning to dawn on me is that this disappointment is a stage or turning point. Wants and decisions are filtering toward resolution. Realizations bubble to the surface with my self-imposed solitary confinement. When I was painting (many years ago) I would always reach a stage where the piece was a mess. Unclear, unfocused and just frickin’ ugly, I would get nervous but keep working at it. At an eventual point, though, the painting would come together. The message would make itself known and the visual structure would fall into place. Now, I look for the pieces to come together and the decisions to become clear as I slog through the muck. I’m doing my best to avoid impulsive action — like moving to Vegas or becoming an insurance salesman. I’m going through the change and I recognize that I’m obsessing more that just a bit.

Experience tells me that I should consider these thoughts, but to also let them run their course. Disappointment can bring with it some level of sadness and sometimes regret but also an opportunity to discover what’s really vital. Buddhists believe that one should not dwell, let go, and let the moment carry one along*. However, letting go is not always easy and the moment seems elusive. It is a challenge to find ones ground. I have always believed, though, that nothing is permanent — written on the wind so to speak (sorry) — and change is just around the corner. Therefore, I wait.

Each night, I put my book down and then shut out the light. Mom’s excessive collection of antique chalk figurines stare down at me spookily in the dark from their shelves and dresser top as if they want something from me. I prepare myself for the roaring and rattling pretending the surf is crashing outside my window. There is confidence that, sooner or later, this episode will race by like the wind outside the house. So, I lay in bed at night and listen to my own emotional differentials, and hold on for the forecast to change.

“If we will be quiet and ready enough, we shall find compensation in every disappointment.”

Henry David Thoreau

*Two Buddhist monks were walking along a path when they came to a shallow, muddy river. A woman in a beautiful dress waited there, not wishing to cross for fear of ruining her beautiful dress. One of the monks lifted her onto his shoulders – something that he was absolutely not supposed to do – and carried her to the other side, where he set her down (dress intact) and proceeded along the path with his fellow monk. After a few hours, the second monk, unable to continue keeping quiet about what he understood as a violation of the code by which they lived, asked his companion, “Why did you pick that woman up and carry her across the river?” The first monk replied, “Are you still carrying her? I put her down hours ago.”

I Dream Of Skiing

In August or September I start having ski dreams. Although the visuals may be a bit different, the dreams are essentially all the same. I’m on a mountain at some nondescript ski resort looking down the slope. Sometimes I’m at an incredibly high altitude. Most often I’m alone but sometimes there are others around me. If it’s August, there may be practically no snow on the ground but I’m still there with my skis on. As time goes by and the days become colder, there’s more snow and I am schussing down the hill. Ever since my first ski trip in the early ‘90s, I’ve had these dreams. At first they were constant, almost nightly, but over time the dreams have subsided. I still have them though. They’re like clock work.

On my very first day of downhill skiing ever I took lessons since I didn’t want to break a leg or just mangle myself in general. I connected with it right away. Learning to wedge and stop, traverse the hill and control my speed. It was great fun and I was a star pupil. The instructor even told me that I could advance a couple notches to a higher class. It felt natural. I was beaming and it was the happiest I had felt in a long time. When I met up with my friends Doug, Allan and Frank at the end of that day they wanted to see my progress. They promptly took me to the very top of the mountain. It took a while to get all the way down on a green trail as I self-consciously traversed and wedged. I think we were the last people on the entire hill. The ski patrol and his buddies were literally putt-putting the snowmobile slowly behind us all the way. No pressure at all.

I had cross-country skied as a kid but alpine never came into the picture. Then in my early 30’s, Doug, my boyfriend at the time, said he wanted to take me on his annual New Year’s ski vacation with his longtime friends Allan and Frank. I, of course, said yes and for some reason was very excited to be going even though I had never really thought about learning to downhill ski before. Maybe it was the opportunity for a completely new experience and the chance to be in the woods and mountains, but the idea just clicked for me. We were headed to Vail/Beaver Creek and I was well equipped with borrowed ski wear, new gloves, long undies, and goggles.

I love being in the mountains. Forgive the sappiness, but the majesty and grandeur are very moving for me. The air is crystal clean with a hint of pine and the peaceful silence is remarkable. I feel spiritually expansive instead of keeping it all close and protected as I do in the city. Being high up and seeing so much sky is very comforting. It feels like home.

Up until now, I’ve skied Vail/Beaver Creek, Steamboat, Whistler, Tahoe, Mt. Hood, Mt. Bachelor, Lake Louise, Aspen, Stowe, Hunter, and finally Telluride. I have also attended a fair number of gay ski weeks. But Telluride has become my favorite. Aside from Lake Louise, it’s the most beautiful place I’ve skied. The charming old mining town with its old west main street (Butch Cassidy robbed his first bank there in 1889, by the way) and colorful Victorian houses sits in a cul-de-sac of gorgeous 14,000 foot snowy peaks. Because it’s so remote, lift lines are blissfully short if not non-existent. There have been times when I am the only person on a trail at the end of day. No one above me. No one below. The sun is low in the sky and the jagged edge of pine shadows stretch across the snow. With the exception of a few bird calls and the hush of wind through the trees, it’s thoroughly quiet. Telluride has spoiled me.

Since that first fateful trip more than 15 years ago I fell head over heels—and not in the snow. I go every year. If I don’t get some amount of skiing in every season I feel that life is missing something vital for me. I start planning in October, book by December, and obsess about it ‘til the departure date arrives. I can’t wait for that cold slap of air on a sunny morning while riding the lift. And let’s not forget about the outfits. Skiwear is very important and I have to refrain from buying more than I need. It’s like shoes. I’ve become a decent but solitary skier and more than a bit of a speed freak. I look for the steep cruisers—challenging blues or single black diamonds. While I’m skiing, nothing else exists for me. Troubles and worries slide away. I’m in the moment and focused on the trail ahead. The sensation is amazing. It’s like flying.

I apply to life what I’ve discovered from skiing. There is much starting and stopping as you go. Falling and frustration. Bruised butt and ego. But if you really want to progress you get up and keep going. And each time you fall and each run you make, you learn something new and you’re just a little bit better. Then at the end of the day you are sore and exhausted but satisfied. I will never forget that first pivotal ski trip. I think it changed my life.

Sadly, Telluride will probably not be in the cards this year. Over a year of unemployment has made that decision for me. But, hopefully, I will do a few day trips to the local mountain and get my fix. If not, I will just have to dream of next year.

(Many thanks to Doug, Allan and Frank.)