Waking early this morning, I watched dawn break. First in her fierce red glow, blossoming behind the mountains, like an ink stain spreading, then diffusing into paler pink and purple streaks; until finally day arrived, grey-blue at first, the sky clear but for the insubstantial threads of clouds above the peaks, still one-dimensional in the flat morning light. Below the valley was obscured by a softly rolling ocean of mist. Then the sun shone, now fully risen and the world turned on in all its three dimensions, shadow and light.
I went cross-country skiing, up to my favourite high spot, which overlooks Donner Lake. But the lake was hidden beneath the mist and I was high up in the sunshine, like a plane flying above the clouds. I was alone with the hills and trees and snow, the only sound my skis on the cold snow, scrape-y from yesterday’s rain, and my ragged-y breathing.
This is what “it’s” for, I thought.
It—meaning—skiing, and by extension, working out, being healthy, being in shape. What a privilege. A good reminder, too.
Because I’ve been a tiny bit sad this cross-country ski season, missing my best ski friend, who just had knee surgery. I’ve even felt sorry for myself at times (I know, I know, you don’t need to tell me that’s lame)—until I remember that I’m skiing and she is at home with her leg in a passive motion machine, working on healing.
I wish I could bottle the morning and bring it to Kristen, so we could drink it in together.