It showed up like a gift

The renewable resource that allows humans to thrive all over this planet.

Skiing, I’m thinking, is like eating what’s in season.

When the tomatoes are ripe, BLTs are what’s for dinner.

When a fresh snow falls, hit the trails

like the hours

are as precious

as those juicy tomatoes.

I became a skier

by myself in the woods.

I was

a new mom

needing calm and quiet control.

Time to hear only my breath and be

only in my body.

I became a yogi

by myself on my mat.

I was

a new adult

needing calm and quiet control.

I found my breath when

I was in my body.

Never mind all the details,

the talk of wax,

Urdhva Dhanurasana,

tracks and rollers,

Om Shanti Om.

Once again

a new bride married to amazement,

taking the world into my arms

each moment in the snow-filled woods

each time I roll out my mat

I remember

body

I remember

breath

I remember

death

comes for us all.

Sparkling snow

that will melt

is here now.

*Inspired by Mary Oliver’s poem “When Death Comes”

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This poem found me pretty much word-for-word one day in March of 2021 during a particularly gorgeous outing in the snow belt of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. I was skiing a lot in those days, but I had never written a poem before. It surprised me and I loved the free flowing words instantly without any sense of self-consciousness, like I could love a delicious meal at a restaurant or a wild flower I had done nothing to bring into existence. The poem showed up complete, like a gift.

Elizabeth Gilbert writes about the mysterious delight of being a human open to ideas and inspiration in her book called Big Magic.

“Ideas are driven by a single impulse: to be made manifest. And the only way an idea can be made manifest in our world is through collaboration with a human partner. It is only through a human’s efforts that an idea can be escorted out of the ether and into the realm of the actual.”

According to this way of understanding creativity, when an idea pays you a visit and tries to get your attention — wakes you in the night or pours through your pen while journaling or explodes like a raincloud on your picnic — it’s just up to you to work with the idea to make it real. Write it down, share it, give it space, oxygen and sunlight.

I like that — no need to claim much ownership or to be bashful about a fun poem that I had the good fortune to write. I don’t mean to discount the work that poets invest in polishing their craft or pretend that mine is an exemplary poem. But when winter recently delivered some perfect snow, I longed to get outside and I then dug around in my files to re-read the words that had lit me up all those years ago. I remembered the sparkle and joy of the poem’s arrival, and in reading it also remembered that I am capable of that elusive feeling of contentment. Even when things feel out of control.

The snow arrived during a stretch of stressful weeks. The news of massive change in national policy and attitude has been hard for me personally, as it has been for so many people. I’m not great with the discomfort of uncertainty. I long for calm and control now just like I have at other times in my life.

My point here is not about writing poetry or the pleasure of skiing, but instead about remembering. Remembering, again, that I have what I need: on my mat, in the woods, really anywhere, in my body, with my breath.

This is also a reminder to myself, and you in case you need it, that we are made to be lit up with ideas. Our spirits can expand beyond measure. I feel certain that this is what allows humans to live and love all over the planet in circumstances that are too-often less than ideal. If you, like me, are feeling a bit overwhelmed by the mayhem and madness of swirling changes that are outside our control right now, let’s remember to get some fresh air. Wander around. Do whatever you do to find your breath, be in your body, and pay attention. There are ideas waiting to be made real and poems that need to be written.