December 7
I almost didn’t go. I knew I’d be chasing light and I’m afraid of the dark. Last year the hair on the back of my neck stood on end several times on skis with the dogs at dusk. They would take off at the first switchback and freak me out when their eyes caught my headlamp on my way back down as they rejoined me. Then I found the cougar kill in the spring at the spot right off trail at the same place.
After a frustrating couple of hours on the computer I almost collapsed on the couch, but I garnered enough energy for at least one lap. With the spring outing fresh in mind, I realized I hadn’t really gathered my confidence yet for the year to ski in the dark, with or without the dogs (who didn’t run off at that spot, so the cat must have shifted locales for this winter, or hasn’t yet appeared). Five minutes in and I already felt myself again. Is it the fresh air? Is it the alternating arm swing that calms the nervous system, like a massage client told me*? Witnessing the dogs running, ears back, reveling in the snow, expressing their genetic code?
As I ascended, the snain turned to snow and the only sound was the sush of my skis. I turned around, letting go of the day, week, and even a bit of the last year.I become Roz in Wild Robot, free from expectations. Aren’t we all robots? Experience machines, storing every run, ski, decision, argument, flash of insight (or misunderstanding), only to repeat again and again, day after day, until the end? We don’t know what makes consciousness, but maybe the fact that going outside makes me feel myself is part of what makes us human. I digress. But I suppose that’s also the point of going out day after day, taking the mind for a wander.