I did not learn to ski till I was 33. It was the first year my ex-husband was in his new medical practice and I was lucky enough to be a stay at home mom. We lived 15 minutes from the ski area, so I would get my housework done, run up and ski a few runs, then head back to the house to start supper and be available when my daughter got home from school.

I was scared to death. I don’t like heights. I don’t like cold. I don’t particularly like strenuous sports. But my family did so I was bound and determined to learn. I signed up for a class through the local community college. It was really affordable and met two days per week. Perfect. The problem came when everyone else in the class advanced much quicker than me. I didn’t like being left behind so I really pushed myself, but I was panic stricken every time I headed down a run.

One of the techniques used in nearly every run is to lean forward out over the point of balance and turn away from the mountain. This is totally counterintuitive and I couldn’t grasp it. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was turn out over that edge because I was sure I would die.

It took a good deal of practice and several private lessons with a very patient instructor before I became a competent skier. In looking back, I realize much of life is like a good ski run. You have to lean forward past your comfort zone. You have to turn away from certain safety and seek a balance that let’s you soar in a way that is the closest to flying you can attain with your feet still on the ground. When you find that balance, do all you can to keep yourself there for within it lies peace.