So I was writing a post about running, and maybe one day I will finish it and put it up here, but I have to just take some time to talk about what happened at Squaw Valley, my home mountain, and today the stage for a tragic accident ending the life of a great freeskier, CR Johnson, while he was training for the Free Ride tour being held at Squaw on Saturday. He recovered from a horrible brain injury in 2005 that left him temporarily paralyzed and was back on skis as soon as possible because skiing was his one true love, his passion, and as he said in a video for Freeskier magazine, his reason for living. Hauntingly, he says "The joy I get from skiing...that's worth dying for" in this video.
Damn. Life is short. Live it up. Or ski it up.
Combined with the loss of Shane McConkey, this has been a rough year for Squaw skiers and the freeskiing community in general. We all know it's a dangerous sport, we wear our helmets and we are cautious in the trees, but it's always sobering when something like this happens and we realize how fragile life truly is, and especially how much we tempt it and dare it with our activities.
But you really cannot beat an attitude like CR's. It makes you think, about what life is worth to you, and about how you want to live it, and about how following your passion(s) and facing challenges head on, with a smile the whole way through, because you can. Because I can still ski, because I can still smile while I float down the mountain, I will do so with great pleasure and immense joy.
Lately I feel like I've been riding the happiness train. I've felt this positive energy coming at me from a lot of angles and I'm trying to run with it and I've been pretty successful so far. Life is good. Side note, it appears this has turned into my hippy, vibe-y, energy loving entry, and of course this is a requisite on the blog because my life has turned into a bit of a hippy, vibe-y, energy experiment that is working out really well.
For all of our passions, for all of the things that keep us going throughout the day, whether it is a person, a moment, a touching action, an inspiring thought, a beautiful image, a conversation, nature, a friend, anything, take a minute to love it, truly love it. Put that energy out there, and feel it come back because it always does. My friend Cole once told me a couple of years ago, when I asked him why he was so generous, what were his motivations for being such a generous person, that he felt that his generosity would come back to him in some way. This always stuck with me for a variety of reasons. I was impressed with the thought, and it was sort of the first time I had heard this philosophy applied to the life of the college kid, where everything seems bigger than it is and perspective gets lost in the hustle and bustle of academia and social pressure (it's more like social pressure followed by academia, priorities are a little weird in college). I have tried to adopt this philosophy, as I think Cole has as well, in all aspects of my life. What you give inevitably comes back to you. It's like the overquoted but no less brilliant John Lennon, "and in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make." There are a lot of guides to happiness out there, and at my ripe old age of infinite wisdom (Ha) I have boiled them all down to that one. Positivity, realistic optimism in the face of adversity, is the only way to live the gift we have been given and the only way to truly fulfill our own dreams, and to make the people who have gone before us, like CR Johnson, proud of us.
"Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times, when one only remembers to turn on the light." -Albus Dumbledore
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Energy, and the people around us
This past Friday I was lucky enough to get to stay in The Mountains (yes, they are important enough to be capitalized) with my dear friend Emily and her parents. We were driving home from the grocery store - we picked up baking ingredients in an attempt to defy elevation and master cookies at 12,000 ft. - and the snow was really coming down. Earlier that day we had skied with some friends of mine from Denver, some boys who were feeling less-than-wonderful on a Friday morning (typical of DU students, because we have no Friday classes - those of you who have experienced college understand the beauty of this arrangement). The day had been necessarily mellow, but chock full of beautiful white powder, and we were getting "refills" too. It was cold. It was wet. And it was terrific. As February comes to a close, we spoiled Colorado skiers are finally receiving our annual powder cache, and we are ecstatic about it.
Anyways, back to the car. So we were driving through this wonderful storm, going a little too fast because a hot tub was waiting for us at the end of our journey, and talking about the spring. This spring, we planned, we would camp every weekend. And hike every Saturday. And culminate our spring (my last spring at DU) with a long weekend in Moab, using the obligatory one day of hooky, basking in the sun, eating partially cooked rice, hiking, and sleeping in our beloved Love Tent, our temporary home last quarter and the sidekick to all of our Field Quarter adventures. Caught up as we were in our day dreams of sun, sandstone landscapes, and tanned skin, we took ourselves out of the present and planted ourselves squarely in the future.
I'm sure you think that the next part of the story is a car accident, because here we are driving in a snow storm and letting our minds wander, but in fact the next part of the story is an interesting conversation about the winter, the snow, and the cold weather. After such an amazing day of skiing, it is hard to believe I was willing to spend a few minutes yearning for the spring. But the spring, with its pleasant weather pattern, is the perfect background for a variety of outdoor activities. I feel stuck in the winter sometimes, because many activities are snowed out. But skiing, fantastic skiing, is a winter sport. And it is my favorite.
So why do I love skiing so wholeheartedly and with all of my being? Why is it that after all of these years, I have come back to the sport every winter, have chosen my college because of it, have shaped my academic schedule around it? If you knew me in middle school, during my formative skiing years, you know I hated skiing. I hated being away every weekend, I hated putting boots on in the morning, I hated the cold. I had no friends because I refused to take my gloves off at break, so sat at a table with my helmet on, in my full turquoise one piece, wondering why no one would talk to me. Despite those days when I would talk to myself as I sped down the mountain, I loved the sport. I loved the feeling of zooming by people as they watched these little kids going a little too fast. I fell back in love with the sport when I came to Colorado. The Rocky's are breathtaking.
Back then, I ignored the people and focused on the technicalities of the sport. Now, the people make it for me. The chairlift rides, the cramped lunch tables, the friendly (or not-so-friendly) lifties. Everyone loves skiing. It brings out the best in people. Sure, there are some frustrated snowboarders and some crying kids, but for the most part, people are jazzed to be out there, enjoying the snow, the sun, and the (overpriced) food. And that is why I love skiing. I get to be a part of the someone's vacation, of someone's great day, I get to be a part of someone's smile. The grins of the people I sit next to on the chairlift, the whoops of friends meeting friends and the wind whipping past my ears and through my hat and freezing my hair around my face, that is why I ski today. If you see me on the mountain, these days it's usually Keystone and it's usually a Thursday, I can guarantee you I will be grinning, chatting, and waving my way down the Rocky Mountain slopes in that crisp air, sharing a bond with thousands upon thousands of strangers who are also at their best when skiing out fresh lines of bowls and carving the corduroy of the rolling groomers.
"But it's hard to stay mad when there's so much beauty in the world."
Anyways, back to the car. So we were driving through this wonderful storm, going a little too fast because a hot tub was waiting for us at the end of our journey, and talking about the spring. This spring, we planned, we would camp every weekend. And hike every Saturday. And culminate our spring (my last spring at DU) with a long weekend in Moab, using the obligatory one day of hooky, basking in the sun, eating partially cooked rice, hiking, and sleeping in our beloved Love Tent, our temporary home last quarter and the sidekick to all of our Field Quarter adventures. Caught up as we were in our day dreams of sun, sandstone landscapes, and tanned skin, we took ourselves out of the present and planted ourselves squarely in the future.
I'm sure you think that the next part of the story is a car accident, because here we are driving in a snow storm and letting our minds wander, but in fact the next part of the story is an interesting conversation about the winter, the snow, and the cold weather. After such an amazing day of skiing, it is hard to believe I was willing to spend a few minutes yearning for the spring. But the spring, with its pleasant weather pattern, is the perfect background for a variety of outdoor activities. I feel stuck in the winter sometimes, because many activities are snowed out. But skiing, fantastic skiing, is a winter sport. And it is my favorite.
So why do I love skiing so wholeheartedly and with all of my being? Why is it that after all of these years, I have come back to the sport every winter, have chosen my college because of it, have shaped my academic schedule around it? If you knew me in middle school, during my formative skiing years, you know I hated skiing. I hated being away every weekend, I hated putting boots on in the morning, I hated the cold. I had no friends because I refused to take my gloves off at break, so sat at a table with my helmet on, in my full turquoise one piece, wondering why no one would talk to me. Despite those days when I would talk to myself as I sped down the mountain, I loved the sport. I loved the feeling of zooming by people as they watched these little kids going a little too fast. I fell back in love with the sport when I came to Colorado. The Rocky's are breathtaking.
Back then, I ignored the people and focused on the technicalities of the sport. Now, the people make it for me. The chairlift rides, the cramped lunch tables, the friendly (or not-so-friendly) lifties. Everyone loves skiing. It brings out the best in people. Sure, there are some frustrated snowboarders and some crying kids, but for the most part, people are jazzed to be out there, enjoying the snow, the sun, and the (overpriced) food. And that is why I love skiing. I get to be a part of the someone's vacation, of someone's great day, I get to be a part of someone's smile. The grins of the people I sit next to on the chairlift, the whoops of friends meeting friends and the wind whipping past my ears and through my hat and freezing my hair around my face, that is why I ski today. If you see me on the mountain, these days it's usually Keystone and it's usually a Thursday, I can guarantee you I will be grinning, chatting, and waving my way down the Rocky Mountain slopes in that crisp air, sharing a bond with thousands upon thousands of strangers who are also at their best when skiing out fresh lines of bowls and carving the corduroy of the rolling groomers.
"But it's hard to stay mad when there's so much beauty in the world."
And it begins
In an effort to decrease wasted time and increase productive procrastination, I have started a blog. For some, I may be joining the blog world late, but for others, it is still a realm of unattainable possibility open to only the technologically savvy. Considering my readership, the blog will remain PG (for the most part, but may dabble in PG13). I hope to store my thoughts as they come, to practice the lost art of writing, and to essentially deposit my memories here, on my computer memory for you to read, rather than leave them stagnant in my frequently unreliable head.
Case in point: on field quarter, in Mexico, as we studied the ecology of the kelp forests, the ongoing abalone controversy came up in discussion. I proudly announced to my class that every Sunday while I was growing up in cozy Larkspur, my grandmother (who at the time was about 55-65) skin dove for abalone in the frigid bay waters over the weekend so that she could come home and bake/grill/sauté it and serve this tasty meat to no less than ten members of the Larkins clan and extensions in a complete three course meal. Every Sunday. For ten years. I believed wholeheartedly, and incorrectly, that not only were we served abalone EVERY Sunday night, this precious abalone was caught from the deep blue upwelled waters of the San Francisco Bay (which does not house a kelp forest, might I had, thereby unable to support abalone life anywhere closer to us than Monterey Bay) by none other than my grammy Irene. My classmates were obviously duly impressed with the grit, athleticism, and fortitude of this tough old bird of a grandmother I had.
Although my grandmother does possess grit (just ask the Tracy folk she grew up with), athleticism (she could kick my butt in tennis until I was 15), and fortitude (she does still make multiple course meals for large amounts of family and friends), it turns out she was not an abalone diver during her spare weekend hours (but she is a certified skin diver).
And I digress...
This blog, I hope, will be a place to write my writings - that is, the ideas that come to my head, scattered and scrambled as they may be, as they come. My memory will now have an extra storage compartment, with a little help from my old friend the Internet.
From Chile to Guatemala to Mexico (three times) my year has taken me many places (all Spanish speaking) and back to solid ground in my cozy house in Denver, where I write from my trusty couch, which is not actually mine but came with the house (along with the gunk on the bathroom floor, the faulty heater, the lazy drier, and the leaky window above my bed). The couch has been witness to debauchery, tears, crumbs, and plenty of silly smiles. It is only fitting that it takes some ownership of the adventures it has heard about in our life together, the couch and me. So I write this for the couch, and all those who identify with it. All those who hear about my happily semi-sedentary lifestyle can now read about it. And see the photos I capture. And the videos I take. Happy reading and happy trails!
"You, whose day it is
Get out your rainbow colors
And make it beautiful."
Case in point: on field quarter, in Mexico, as we studied the ecology of the kelp forests, the ongoing abalone controversy came up in discussion. I proudly announced to my class that every Sunday while I was growing up in cozy Larkspur, my grandmother (who at the time was about 55-65) skin dove for abalone in the frigid bay waters over the weekend so that she could come home and bake/grill/sauté it and serve this tasty meat to no less than ten members of the Larkins clan and extensions in a complete three course meal. Every Sunday. For ten years. I believed wholeheartedly, and incorrectly, that not only were we served abalone EVERY Sunday night, this precious abalone was caught from the deep blue upwelled waters of the San Francisco Bay (which does not house a kelp forest, might I had, thereby unable to support abalone life anywhere closer to us than Monterey Bay) by none other than my grammy Irene. My classmates were obviously duly impressed with the grit, athleticism, and fortitude of this tough old bird of a grandmother I had.
Although my grandmother does possess grit (just ask the Tracy folk she grew up with), athleticism (she could kick my butt in tennis until I was 15), and fortitude (she does still make multiple course meals for large amounts of family and friends), it turns out she was not an abalone diver during her spare weekend hours (but she is a certified skin diver).
And I digress...
This blog, I hope, will be a place to write my writings - that is, the ideas that come to my head, scattered and scrambled as they may be, as they come. My memory will now have an extra storage compartment, with a little help from my old friend the Internet.
From Chile to Guatemala to Mexico (three times) my year has taken me many places (all Spanish speaking) and back to solid ground in my cozy house in Denver, where I write from my trusty couch, which is not actually mine but came with the house (along with the gunk on the bathroom floor, the faulty heater, the lazy drier, and the leaky window above my bed). The couch has been witness to debauchery, tears, crumbs, and plenty of silly smiles. It is only fitting that it takes some ownership of the adventures it has heard about in our life together, the couch and me. So I write this for the couch, and all those who identify with it. All those who hear about my happily semi-sedentary lifestyle can now read about it. And see the photos I capture. And the videos I take. Happy reading and happy trails!
"You, whose day it is
Get out your rainbow colors
And make it beautiful."
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