My Little Golden Book of Phobias

This is where I was. I love to ski. I love everything about it, the quiet, the white, the shushing sound of my skis on the snow, the cold on my face, the taste of a peanut butter sandwich in my mitten, the ache in my muscles after I'm done. Because I wasn't an athletic kid, the discovery that I could ski into the woods by myself and fall down a dozen times and get up and continue, that it didn't matter that I wasn't any good but I was good enough and I could stay warm and bright on the coldest days in the Northeast was a benediction, a kind of blessing. I've been on Rainier by myself when I had no business being alone, I've skied down pretty big hills without falling down and no one to witness, I've been standing in the forest catching snow on my upturned face.

Maybe I'll never be too old to ski. Just strap skis on my shoes, stand me up in the snow where it's perfectly flat and give me a little push. The joy pierces my heart.