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Afghan women were once compared to as sleeping lions, that when woken, would play a major role in social revolution. I now think that you can take the Afghan label away and simply say, WOMEN are the sleeping lions. And we need to wake up and ROAR.
Here we are, living in United States, the so-called bastion of equality, in the year 2011. We have the vote and the legalese to ensure our place among men as equals.
And yet.
The talk this week around the water cooler by a group of men that should know better, tears apart my motivations and abilities to work in Afghanistan. The comments at the bottom of online news stories that call me an unfit mother or rant that I have no right to do what I do because of the ongoing military conflict, have so far been all men. I know I’ve read them all and took them to heart.
You want to hear me roar?
Call me a barbie. Say I’m naive. I’m crazy. I’m reckless. Tell me its impossible.
Dismiss me by my blond hair, my gender, or my audacity.
Damn right I’m audacious. I’m also unconvential, impulsive, direct, and fearless. I’m also a woman. And a mother. You act as if that’s a bad thing. No, you act as if I don’t have the right. BECAUSE I’m a woman and a mother. The controversy isn’t that I risked everything to start working in Afghanistan, or that I did it without a degree in international development, or that it means I have to spend time away from my daughter, or that it without security, or that I became the first person to bike across the Panjshir province. The controversy is my gender.
Men are doing what I do. Fathers are doing what I do. I don’t hear the same commentary. I don’t see their experience, motivations, or mental sanity questioned. Its the same in the mountaineering world. Men risk their lives to climb the highest peaks in the world, and many die every year. They are sung a heros song, celebrating their lives as trail blazers. And the women? Those that climb the same peaks have their motivations and their motherhood questioned, and the few that meet the same unfortunate demise are vilified as irresponsible and reckless.
Sitting on the sidelines has never changed the world. Turning a blind eye doesn’t bring justice to those victimized. I’m not going to do either just because I’m a woman and a mother. I refuse to bow to apathy. I’m going to jump in, and when you jump, there’s risk.
But here’s what you don’t see when you seeing me leaping, seemingly reckless, into the deep end. I checked the water when you were looking the other way. I know how to swim in these depths. I made sure of it.
Don’t dismiss my blond hair and broad smile as one of a Pollyanna thinking she can change the world with rainbows and unicorns. I’m doing it with sweat, blood, and tears. Covered in mud, under headscarves, fighting injustice in the murkiest waters, where others dare not swim.
Reckless I am not. Impulsive? You bet. Do you know that I studied Afghanistan for years before I ever started working there? Did you know that I lived abroad for ten years, living in other cultures and learning how to swim in their waters? Did you know that I worked for myself since my early twenties, creating a job and later a business, out of sweat, guts, and sheer stubborness? Do you know the relationships I have developed with Afghans and how their invaluable advice and opinions have shaped the prism in which I measure risk, and give me the freedom to ride my bike in a country where women don’t. It was Afghan’s that taught me and encouraged me to ride a motorcycle in the back streets of Kabul. It was Afghan’s that invited me into their homes to discuss girls education and rural health care. It was Afghans that offered me the chance to ride a buzkahsi horse before a match, and taught me to fish in the Panjshir river. It was Afghans that told me, yes you can ride your bike here.
That doesn’t make me reckless or crazy. It makes me curious, adventurous, and yes, audacious.
Naive? Definitely not. Idealist? maybe. I know that the realities. I know the risks. I know that this is a country that may not be able to claw its way into the 21st century, much less back to where it was in the 1960′s. The cards are stacked against me and others like me, succeeding. There will be women and girls that are still raped, abused, and victimized, but guess what. That happens in our own country. But I am not going to throw my hands up and say ‘its impossible’. The lives we affect, are forever changed, and those lives will affect others, and so on.
You want to throw labels? Here’s one. Coward. You stand back, safe on shore, have never spoken with me, and base your assumptions on my appearance and my gender? How dare you. That you would fall back on the basest of stereotypes in order to dismiss me is an insult to men and women alike.
So stand back and watch, because the dye has been cast. Crazy isn’t a fact – its an opinion. So is impossible.
While you are standing there watching, open your ears, because the sleeping lions are waking up – and man are they going to roar!
“Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through
experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, ambition
inspired, and success achieved. ” Helen Keller.
A friend posted these words on Facebook today, and as I am struggling to create a foundation to empower communities in Afghanistan, be the best mother I can possibly be to my young daughter, and still find the energy and passion to be ME, I find I need to dig deep. These words are powerful, not just because I see its truth in all those I admire, but also because of who said them. Someone who knows a little something about trial and suffering, about courage, and about the strength of the human spirit. Something I see mirrored in the women in Afghanistan. Like the deaf headmistress in Kabul at the school we are building, sitting in front of the camera like a modern day Madonna.
Having dedicated all of my limited financial resources three years ago to create and develop a non profit, Mountain2Mountain, to empower women and their communities in Afghanistan, I am facing the dark creep of doubt that sneaks in when times get tough. If it was easy – everyone would do it I guess. Having my young daughter, Devon, counting on me weighs heavily when faced with the realization that time’s a tickin’ and if I don’t complete the circle soon, I’ll be begging Starbuck’s for a job so I can pay the rent.
But the risk is so worth it. Devon deserves to grow up in a world where her mother fought against the acceptance of rape, the oppression of women, and for the rights of girls her age to get the most basic access to education and healthcare.
The irony is that I now get why the ‘women who lunch in Chanel suits’ are often the ones most philanthropically active. They can afford to be. In order to make the sweeping changes needed to launch Mountain2Mountain, and to keep it moving forward while we develop our projects and programs in Afghanistan, it has meant that I’m struggling more than I ever have in my life. Yet it all stems from my own struggle to assimilate my experience with sexual violence in my youth that led me down this path. I can’t turn my back, I have to believe we will find the funding, we are too close to be hamstrung by something as mundane as money!
As my close girlfriend said on the phone a few weeks back, “you are so close, I can taste it”, and she’s right. Our bold, innovative approach has developed because of my ability to get over to Afghanistan repeatedly to listen and learn. We are so close to finding the funding, the sponsorships, the support that will sustain our growth and allow our programs to flourish across Afghanistan. We are too close to fail.
Someday I’ll look back at this time and either laugh, cry, or breathe a sigh of relief. For now, I work on knowing that what doesn’t kill us, only makes us stronger. And I can’t let Devon down.
photo credit Di Zinno
Authentic seems to be word of the weekend. The authentic self.
Authentic implies truth. Embracing one’s true self and allowing others to see it, unedited.
I have a hard time with that – I edit my public personae when it comes to a few things that I keep close to my chest. There are things I have spent most of my adult life keeping private. Nothing wrong that. One’s skeletons are their own. Right?
Interestingly, one of skeletons emerged from the closet very publicly last May when I was interviewed by Ann Curry on Dateline in regards to the work I am doing with my non profit, Mountain 2 Mountain.
Some hard questions were asked, and I found it difficult to answer. Since then, the same questions have arisen again and again in interviews, discussions, and heart to hearts with good friends. One of the most common runs along the theme, “Aren’t you scared?” ”Why do you do it?”
This comes up because my non profit focuses on Afghanistan and I have travelled there three times in the last year. Its is not the safest place for a 5’9 blond American woman to work to be sure. I have a 5 year old daughter who needs her mother to come home to her.
I have struggled with these two questions over the past year, coming up with vague answers that are less than fully authentic, but seemingly unable to articulate the grains of truth that would make the answers resonate with clarity.
Then recently I was asked to rewatch the Dateline piece with a good friend and a stranger. Uncomfortable with this for two reasons, the first is that I don’t love seeing myself on television. Its a little painful and no one is a stronger critic than one’s self. The second reason is that one of skeletons emerged unexpectedly under the gaze of Ms. Curry. Nearly two decades ago I was was raped. A dozen or so people knew of this around the time it happened, close friends and family and eventually serious romantic relationships would be told. But it was never discussed per se, and the majority of my close friends I made later in life never knew.
I never felt it defined me. I never allowed myself to feel the victim. I never met with other survivors. I never considered the role it played in my life and my development. It was simply an act that I endured in the past. Chapter closed.
Until last weekend. Watching the Dateline piece alongside a stranger, watching their reaction, and the consequent discussion that followed, I felt myself acknowledging a few home truths.
It did define me. How could it not? While I vowed not to let it define me, I really meant that I would not be the victim. Without my realization, it has led me down a path towards the work I am now fully committed to in Afghanistan. It was an integral part of the reason that I was determined to work to empower the women and children of Afghanistan.
The question again came up. ”Are you scared?”
“Nope.”
“Why?”
To which I’d normally reply some vague answer of the risks versus benefits, etc. I now know the authentic reply is admitting the authentic, deeply personal reasons. ”Because I am more scared that we won’t raise the money to allow us to continue our work than I am of getting hurt.” ”Because my daughter is safe with her father and those that love her, and I can endure anything that may happen to me. I already have.” ”Because women are often victimized and in Afghanistan its acceptable and tolerated and it infuriates me.”
to the question oft asked, “Why do you take the risks, when you have a young daughter?”
“Because these girls deserve the same opportunities that she has. They deserve to be protected. Their lives are just as valuable as hers. They need someone to advocate for them and fight for them.”
Being able to answer authentically, instead of worrying about how to answer in a way that explains its best in its careful thought-out way, is both scary and freeing.
While I’ve never been ashamed of my rape. I’ve also never voiced it publicly. Even know I find that I am not comfortable saying the word, or hearing it. So my authentic self must acknowledge that nearly 20 years later I need to share so that its not a skeleton in my closet, but simply one of the many experiences, good and bad, that has played its role in creating the life I lead.
Pedal Damn It!
I am an hour into my most recent mountain bike race, this one at Winter Park. By my estimates that puts just under halfway. There is one female singlespeed racer in front of me and a few more chasing behind. My mouth open like a bass out of water gasping for air, I look down at my bike wondering if there is a way to drop out without losing all respect for myself. My bleary eyes focus down on three words screaming back at me, “Pedal Damn It!”, from the stem of my tangerine Niner. ”Okay Okay” I scream back inside my head and drive the pedals down determinedly.
This internal screaming match is matched only by the deadened wails of my quads wondering aloud why I insist on putting them through this. Every race it is the same. Its what makes an afternoon solo ride so much more enjoyable than racing. Racing hurts. It is not just a group ride with a number plate and a startline. Competitiveness, and a little bit of ego, kicks in and you ride faster and harder than you want to – because you have to. Because you can’t get to the finish line with any gas left in the tank or its a complete waste of time and money…not to mention a waste of the ritual pasta breakfast.
Yet, it IS a choice at the end of the day. I could spend race day whizzing around singletrack closer to home, with no entry fee, no pre race jitters, having a grand ol’ time. None of the sport men behind me would be closing in, riding my back wheel, shouting “On your left!”. I wouldn’t be fixated on the 29′er in the Chipotle jersey that is daring me to keep off my brakes on the rocky descents. Instead I’m hosting an argument with my lungs and quads on my side and my bike and ego on the other, with at least an hour and some change left in the race. Why? What makes riders like me come out and race? There’s no money to be had in it. Maybe a podium finish with medal and t-shirt. Surely I could do without a medal that no one will see but me, and I could buy a t-shirt I’ll actually wear with a lot less pain and suffering attached?
Logic says, stop pedaling when it hurts so bad that you SWEAR that THIS is last race you’ll EVER do. Promise. Niner logic tells me, “Pedal Damn It” over and over…ever time glance down in fatigue. Had I realized my Niner would be so demanding, I may have considering buying a Trek frame instead. Yet, perhaps its just the kick in the proverbial bike shorts I need. It may hurt, but damn I feel alive. And strong. And ready to kick some ass. Racing is my challenge to myself. It strengthens my resolve to ride through the pain, to ride through the doubt, and to ride through the logic.
Screw logic, my Niner has it right. On I pedal…..
Hi pressure steam hisses, glasses clink, voices murmur, each adding their own notes to the French jazz playing over the speakers. I sit back with a grin and a bowl of cafe au lait, content to stop racing around the streets of Soho and be transported back to my previous life.
Its been five years since I returned to live in the country of my birth after a ten year absence. I spent my entire twenties living in Europe and my return has been dotted with visits to work in Paris, Beirut, and more recently Afghanistan. I decided to move back to the States on the condition that I could move to the mountains. I love the laid back lifestyle of mountain living. Globally minded communities with small town neighborhoods. No need for wearing make up and the abundance of hats means I can leave the house without using a mirror – something not advisable in Paris and Beirut. I have incredible views everywhere I look. I run and bike endless trails that crisscross the mountains that surround the town.
But my little mountain town is missing something integral to my happiness, and the Balthazar makes me acutely aware of that void. Espresso. The common thread that weaves through all the places I’ve called home since age nineteen is espresso. Creamy, rich, caramel colored espresso. It is at the heart of many of my best memories. As someone who links her travel memories and nostalgia to the tastes and smells of the food around her, espresso is the only constant.
I remember the thinnest pizza margherita in the hole in the wall in Rome, the freshly breaded Jagerschnitzel and pomme frites at the little hut at the top of the tobaggon run in Austria, the chewiest brioche au chocolate in my neighborhood bakery in Paris, the steak and ale pie with homemade crust in the village pub outside Coventry, and the first time I tried sushi in Amsterdam, the risotto nero turned black from squid ink in Croatia, and the falafal stand I stopped at on my to work every day in Beirut.
I’m notorious for ordering the same thing at a particular restaurant, once I find a favorite I stick to it – and looking back it probably works to solidify my memories. My best girlfriend in Darmstadt still emails me to remind me of our evening strolls together to my neighborhood turkish kebab shop despite neither of us having lived there for six years. This is a kebab shop I snuck out of a hospital to visit when I was desperate for some real food (luckily for me the hospital was only three blocks away). I returned to visit Darmstadt three years after I had moved to the States to visit old friends. I arrived into town at 11pm and the first thing I did was drop my luggage and walk into town – making a beeline for the kebab shop. It was the same guys working the counter when I lived there and when they saw me, they placed my kebab order as if I had never left.
Yet despite all these tastes and memories that transport me back to my favorite places, or perhaps helped create my favorite places in the first place, espresso was the one thing that was enjoyed in nearly every city, town, and village I’ve visited. Espresso, cafe au lait, cappuchino, latte…each drink signifies slowing down and the enjoyment that comes from just sitting, watching, and taking in a place. I found enjoyment in my own company when I moved to Europe and discovered the contentment of sitting alone in a coffee house reading the paper or simply watching the world pass by. Its something I’ve never outgrown and even now, given a choice, I’ll spend my free time with the New York Times and a coffee in a cozy coffee joint with a view to the world outside. A morning stroll to a coffee shop to linger over a giant bowl of cafe au lait is pure heaven!
The Balthazar brings that all back. The whole deal – the smells, the sounds, the taste. I’m transported back to every delicious cup of goodness I’ve enjoyed. Foreign cities. Strange languages. Meaningful conversations. The fact is, whether its the lack of patience, the lack of knowledge, the lack of desire, or simply the lack of oxygen – I’ve yet to have the creamy, bliss in a bowl, coffee experience in my entire five years of mountain living. You will still find me at the coffee shop, but now its more for the atmosphere and the community connection than for the actual enjoyment of the caffeinated beverage itself. For THAT, I need the Balthazar.
photo by Christian Ghammachi
Mother’s Day today – which to a four year old means very little. Thus, the day was spent like any other – hanging out with the elephant princess while squeezing in some productive work on the laptop. She is busy creating her own elephant sign language which keeps me on my toes considering I’m trying to find time to learn Dari and some basic human sign language.
Yet this Mother’s Day made me think about my role as mother, not because the Hallmark holiday hit me harder than other years, but this year Mother’s Day coincides with my return from 3 weeks working in Afghanistan. Being a single parent that shares custody of a child is difficult and frustrating. Decisions regarding what’s best for the child are shared, but shared with someone you’ve chosen to break ties with, and in many cases don’t like. In my particular case, the fact that I have chosen to make my work in Afghanistan is a sore point. To the extent that I am labeled a bad mother due to increased travel and the particular location I am now traveling to.
Yet I find myself pondering for the first time in my life, “if I was a man, this wouldn’t be an issue”. It wouldn’t. Fathers travel for work all the time. Fathers often make their careers the priority over family. My ex travelled extensively and for long periods of time from the moment our daughter entered our lives. This is forgotten four years on when I took my first extended trip away for work. Taking my second trip away was selfish and inconsiderate of my daughter’s well being. Nevermind that its my work. My life’s work no less. Because it was a choice, and because its something I love, it doesn’t count. Its not ‘work’. Its play, or its a selfish pursuit of one’s passion, or its simply a folly. Certainly not something worth taking time away from one’s child.
This coming from a father than has spent four weeks already this year on vacation away from the same child. This coming from the father that has another two week vacation coming up in a month’s time.
Breathe.
Yet, if only it were him that thought this way. I know that he’s not. I know that many will look at what I am doing, and where I am doing it, and consider me less of a mother. I, as a mother, am now not allowed to take risks apparently.
But where in the motherhood manual does one find these rules? Where does it say that I am not allowed to embrace my true path in life? Where does it state that the best role model you can be is to suppress who you are?
Those who know me well, see the opposite. That by carving my path I am doing my utmost to raise a daughter that will have the confidence in herself to find her own and courageously follow it to the bitter end. They know that my daughter is the prism in which I measure the risk and the time spent away. Her needs remain the priority and that tempers my choices. Putting her first in the heavy list of priorities doesn’t replace my needs, wants, desires – its simply bumps them down the list, not off the list entirely.
As a mother, my daughter comes first. As a woman, I must remain true to myself and the things that are important in my life. Let’s not forget that one must work in order to provide. Men continue to work, often times men we view as ‘heros’ are so at great sacrifice to their families. My own father owned his own business which meant long hours at the office and travel away from us. It wasn’t viewed as selfish. It was necessary. It was work. Why then the role reversal?
Why Afghanistan? Why take the risk? Because my daughter is born in a country that ensures her right to choose. She is insured an education. She is can ride a bike, ski, or simply walk down the street with little risk other than that which she causes herself with the genetic clumsiness she inherited from me. She can choose when, who, and if she wants to marry. She has every opportunity thanks to the genetic passport she was gifted at birth. I had and have those same rights and realize how lucky I am. Young girls in Afghanistan shouldn’t be afforded less opportunity just because of where they live. If there is anything I can do, I must. I can only hope my daughter feels the same way as she matures into the woman she chooses to become.
If that’s being a bad mother, I guess I’ll have to accept it and hope that my daughter forgives me.
Today, I flashbacked to seventeen…telling my parents that I wanted to move out, not just out, but move to the big city and pursue a career as a modern dancer. They must have internally been shitting a brick, but externally they accepted that perhaps it was time to let me test my wings. Amazingly they released me into the wild and let me stumble, fall, crash, and eventually fly.
In Kabul its been a steep learning curve and I’m still in the left side of the bell curve – its a difficult country to assimilate into, not just because of headscarves, restrictions, and heavy security concerns, but also because streets signs don’t exist, houses are unmarked, businesses are unsigned. How is one develop their internal map if one can’t even find where they are on a enlarged paper version?
Najibullah was my initial introduction to Kabul and greater Afghanistan by proxy. He acted as guide, translator, fixer, Dari instructor, and led me through the warm ups prior to stretching my wings. He got his first taste that I wasn’t going to rely on him forever when I sent him on an errand and went for a motorcycle ride around Kabul a week into my very first visit. He then began to allow for more freedom in our daily excursions . Initially he had avoided markets and walking beyond what was essential, but the next day he took me to Chicken Street where we perused book shops, talked with children selling maps of Afghanistan and Kabul, and shop keepers. He even agreed to ask a group of Afghan police if they would pose for a photo with me on the first ask. Didn’t even bat an eye when I seized the opportunity to ride a Buzkashi horse. It made all the difference.
I learned that its normal to change large amounts of money into Afghanis by dodgy looking men standing on the streetcorners. You know they are money changers by the enormous wad of cash they carry. Same with the cell phone cards. Cell phones are pay as you go and you buy the cards often by the same guys changing money.
Now this visit, I push back a bit more. I chose a different guesthouse, more centrally located, get picked up fairly regularly by motorbike, and use him and a driver per day rather than per trip – planning out our schedule a few days at a time. I don’t tell him that I am walking alone in a burqa, go out to dinner at night instead of staying in at the guesthouse, or that I road trip up out of Kabul on a motorbike, don’t want to give the poor man a heart attack, but slowly he is educating me branch out on my own as my skills improve. He helped me purchase my own cell phone, he taught me about how to fly for free with PRT cargo planes in order to get me into Khost, and he has offered to be a liason for drivers when I need a driver but not Naji.
He was even a little bit proud I think when I bought my cellphone, a sign that I would be remaining loyal to my word of working in Afghanistan. To seal the deal he bought me a small Afghan flag on a stand for my desk in America to remind me of the good work to come in Afghanistan.
All of this is done with mixed feelings. I’m thrilled to be testing my wings in this new land that I am adopting as my home away from home. While I’ve not yet tried to fully fly on my own yet, each day I stretch my wings a little further and hop a little closer to the edge of the nest.
My heart got more than a little stomped and all I wanted to do was curl up on the uncomfortable hotel bed and wait for lovely empty abyss of sleep. Instead, I gave the bed a longing look and dragged myself back outside to my car and dug through the bag in the trunk for some bike shorts and jersey. Telling myself its a rare thing for this mountain girl to ride her Niner in February, I searched halfheartedly for my ipod, bike cleats, and arm warmers.
I drove out to Lyons with a haze of numbness and Eddie Vedder’s ‘Hard Sun’ on repeat. Pulling into the trailhead to Hall Ranch I took a deep breath, grabbed my shuffle and cued up Linkin Park, Kings of Leon, and 311. I pulled my bike out of the back and internally debated whether or not this rare winter ride would be less painful if I had some gears.
The ride starts out climbing and immediately turns into tight singletrack switchbacks that focus my brain to the task at hand – rocks, lots of them, littering the trail, threatening to buck my Niner off the trail. Standing up out of my seat, “Down” comes on the shuffle and I drive my pedals over and over with determined resolve. Seeing a couple of guys on geared beauties that had left the trailhead a solid five minutes ahead of me. I fire up and steadily reel them in, giving them a little wave and a ‘have a good ride’ as I pass them convincingly. They grunt in return. The first smile of the day spreads across my face.
The trail spits out onto a rock strewn jeep trail and I literally charge the hill. A short downhill helps me recover my breath and get ready for the really good stuff…the lollipop loop of singletrack which starts with more climbing. To my delight the lollipop is clear of snow and mostly dry until the top. Then the mud begins to coat the underside of both me and my Niner – until the descent dislodges it by spraying it onto my front side and face.
‘Bleed it Out’ queues up as I fly down the backside feeling the mud grit my teeth as my smile widens and my gaze narrows in concentration. Wiping out here would be painful and ruin the endorphin kick I’m feeling.
I arrive crash-free and triumphant to the car. I start to pack in the bike and realize that for the first time since going to bed the night before I was thinking of something else.
Back to the hotel in Boulder.. I was left alone with my thoughts which promptly returned to the currently scheduled program. Sleep arrived and with the morning, the ache was a little less distinct, but still oppressive. Pressing snooze more than a couple of times, I forced myself out the door to start a morning of meetings, and as I closed the hotel room door I realized that my road bike was on top of my car by a fluke of the previous day’s happenings. I took it down and threw my messenger bag across my shoulders – cycling downtown with a smile playing at the corners of my mouth.
Immediately following the meetings – which I vaguely recall – I immediately got back to the car and my Niner and steered both back to Lyons for a repeat, hoping for the same reprieve. Miraculously – the ‘trick’ worked again. Same soundtrack, same trail, same sneaky rocks, same wonderful concentration that blocks out all else.
Singletrack DOES heal all wounds, or at least applies some salve. Back home to the mountains where the freshly falling snow awaits me and my skis. I wonder if Pali can work the same magic as Hall Ranch?
I am fortunate for those vibrant souls that color my life. My circle is a small one and extremely spread out across the globe. They have each contributed to my development as a friend, as a woman, as a mother, and as a global citizen. I have them to thank for my widening my internal viewfinder and keeping me from becoming too one dimensional, too self centered, and too comfortable. They have seen me at my worst, my best, and my flashing the crowd in the Hofbrau tent at Oktoberfest.
This week I began to reflect on the kindred spirits that enter and leave our life. Who we choose to invite into our little world of idiosyncrasies is an interesting reflection. Those that stay in our life through the decades are rare. Many step in and out at different stages…teaching us, challenging us, and occasionally pissing us off. Each acts as a mirror, reflecting back different facets of our personality. Some of these mirrors are a little cracked, a little warped, and in need of a little Windex – but that’s what makes their point of view unique!
As I look back, I realize that not everyone is present for the long haul. Friends leave our life for different reasons. Some just fade into the background as years and distance intrude – a few reappear, many don’t. Some you should let go and others you need to fight to keep. Yet every encounter shapes us through our continuing evolution, regardless of the time spent together.
These colorful souls that have a stamp on my spirit are numerous, and not all are still in my life. Yet many taught me life’s important lessons!
Heidi – cheap white zinfindel stolen from your parent’s basement chased by Diet Pepsi is a shitty way to get drunk
Elias – Lebanese playboys eat a lot of sushi!
Pete – gave me the greatest gift of my life.
Christiane – shows me a shining example of motherhood, sisterhood, and global compassion every time I see her – and sometimes when I don’t.
Lyndsay – showed me its okay to go home and that friends can evolve from childhood.
Laura – dating your friend’s ex-boyfriend doesn’t have a statute of limitations – its never a good idea!
Katie – “The only Bush I trust is my own” bumper sticker will NEVER go old. Feminism is beautiful. As is her palpable love with Guy.
Andy – “Go win this thing” … and the importance of hill repeats and speedwork.
Tara – what a good friend really is….telling me straight and grounding me while encouraging me to keep flying. Unconsciously bringing dragonfly’s into my life.
Tony – tapping into my artistic heart while not stifling my blunt and sarcastic nature. The encouragement behind the writing.
Devon – the sunshine, the joy, my heart, my spirit embodied.
Kate – take time for yourself…its okay and its necessary.
Lou – Family is sometimes the straw that breaks the camel’s back – but you’re always stronger than you think.
Becca – an intense fear of flying doesn’t mean you can’t travel the world.
Sarah and Dave – a strong and solid love can endure the stages of life - family, respect, laughter, friendship, and joy conquers all!
Brent – Singlespeeds are the ONLY way to go.
Jackie – life throws you A LOT of curveballs….and that won’t stop, so work on your batting skills!
Sean – riding your bike home from the bars is sometimes just as dangerous as driving a car, especially when tram tracks are involved!
Loran – ”chase your dreams”
Terry – music and singing are part of life – at least in the Kutz family!
Zoe – ’Yes” is always the correct answer for a trip to the kebab stand!
Brad and Stacy – the value of a holster and cowboy boots for your life love!
Larissa – sisterhood is not always smooth – especially with a decade between, but its worth it.
Will – my first biking lesson at age 7: if you are riding a boys bike, don’t crash it into a tree and straddle the bar if you want children later in life. OUCH.
Jane – the value of a good cup of tea (or five)
DT – graphs, data, polar heart rate monitors, powertaps, and LT threshold tests are not for me.
H – Beaver Liquors
Amy – female bonding isn’t easy
Gareth – all grudges can be forgiven over four bottles of Beaujolais
Bridgette – mountain yogini extraordinaire and generous birthday wish giver!
Steve – my first musical influence: Devo, “Whip It”, followed by a lifelong education on the Minneapolis music scene!
David – moving forward is key, as is transparency. (and a shared love of baby carrots)
Despite living at nearly 10,000 feet, at the heart of a series of great mountain ski resorts. I can’t ski.
Well…I can get down a run…but its like watching Bambi attempt skiing (the deer, not the porn star). My legs, normally strong and agile, turn spastic as I tense up and try to remember: lean forward, keep my skis parallel, bend my knees, RELAX. These mantras run through my head like a yogi on speed.
To be fair, I’m a fair snowboarder, black runs, bump runs, all good. I didn’t get on a mountain until my early twenties and as such, am a late bloomer for snow sports. This, despite growing up in North Dakota’s endless winter. But endless winter on a prairie, is not the same as one on a mountain. Much less entertaining.
I had a bad experience my first time out on skies. My soon-to-be-ex and his best mate at the time left me on the bunny slope in Engleberg to fend for myself. Having never clicked into skis, much less seen a t-bar, an entertaining, but painful day ensued. Only the young snowboarder who flipped around his precarious t-bar position and was dragged up the bunny hill on his back, snowboard hooked on the t-bar, had a worse day than me.
Never skied again. I did however, ditch the guy, and took up snowboarding. Friends that skied were giving it a go – so it was a level playing field. We all sucked. We were smacked around – wrists sore, asses bruised, faces full of snow, it was a tie for who would buy the drinks. None of us got down with any grace, Zoe took her board off and rode it like a tobaggon back down to the apres-hut. She was disqualified though.
A couple winters later, I kept improving and soon I was cruising along with boarders and skiers alike, confident in most runs and no longer petrified of narrow catwalks. The problem was twofold: resort crowds started to wig me out a bit, and traversing when you are the only boarder with a group of skiers SUCKS. I was considering getting a split board to get into backcountry riding, but I’d still be with skiers and still have the traversing issue.
I put it all on the back burner and I started nordic skiing to avoid the resort crowds and mix up my winter running training. I was soon out of the tracks and having fun on our black loop called Siberia. A good hour or so workout of a lot of climbing. That led to skate skiing – I’m a piss poor skate skier, uncoordinated, inefficient, wobbly run the turns with any speed, but I love the immediate feeling of lactic acid building up in your legs and a lung in your throat! A couple years or so of that, and I realized that I was making turns down black nordic runs on skis with no edge…surely transitioning to downhill skis wouldn’t be difficult.
So with a hand-me-down backcountry AT set up and a new pair of Scarpas, I was ready to start my downhill career. Yet at the same time I made the commitment to start my new skill, time constraints took hold. New business, new baby, soon to be founded non profit. Lunch time skate skiing was a more efficient use of time…and if I had time to get out on a powder day – I wasn’t going to waste it LEARNING…I grabbed my board.
So this year – it all changes. I’ve bought my own AT set up – amazingly the skis are at least 6 inches shorter than my hand-me-down pair…and more curvy. I took a demo pair up the mountain during the full moon last week. Just me, the stars, and the occasional drone of an oncoming snow groomer. Turned around and saw my mountain town spread out below – Christmas twinkles aglow – and steeled myself for what was to come. Skins off, knees wobbling before I even got back into my skis. Pointed myself towards the twinkles and made my first Bambi-like turn. Stop. Breathe. Pat myself on the back. Repeat the other direction. THRILLED no one is around to see me, and I make my cautious way towards town – ready to make this season the one I finally learn to ski.
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