Downhill skiing hasn’t always been my hobby. I took it up at age 45, when I was too young to say I was too old, and too old to put it off any longer. I thought it might be fun.
The fact that I learned to ski is, in itself, amazing. Athleticism isn’t one of my traits. But taking every caution, taking my time, and allowing myself the space to learn and try made all the difference.
Now I look forward to the three or four times a winter in which I climb into my bib overalls, zip up my jacket, pull on my hat, gloves and goggles, slide into boots and snap on my skis. It’s a thrill to brave the biting wind aboard a chairlift to the top of a mountain. It’s exhilarating to glide down steep trails in control, in awe of the glistening frozen landscape and in disbelief that my body is capable of this modest mastery.
Who would think writing could be like this? But it is. Writing is remembering and seeing things as important, as milestones, as revelations valuable enough to capture on paper. It is the exercise that informs every reader about the joys that await if only we dream, then experience new things because we try, and live to tell how wonderful they were. Writing is celebrating our lives to inspire others, and we are never too old to start.