A new mountain.

The wind is harsh and unforgiving this high up the mountain. I come on weekday mornings, so the powder is fresh and the corduroy pristine from the pre-open rake. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to the divine. Standing alone. Shivering. Snowflakes landing, but not melting on my red, raw skin, exposed from taking my gloves off to strap my boot into the board. The wind swirling around in a bitter, icy greeting. Every breathe stinging as I inhale the arctic air deep into my lungs. So frigid it hurts, but I respire still, as if I can pull all my mistakes and hold them in the caverns of my rib cage. Settling in my diaphragm, where they stay, never to mar another. Only I can’t hold them. I have to exhale, just as I have to ride my way down this mountainside.

There is no choice, but to breathe and ride. I push the board with my core and legs, so I’m facing the trail and gravity takes over. I’m on the move, gliding down the smooth, fluffy path, my back leg guiding the board as my pace quickens. I hit the speed that always makes my heart jump. It’s faster than I’m comfortable going, but without this momentum I wouldn’t have enough control. I catch an edge, a divot in the snow left by the turn of a skier, and start to wobble. My core tightens and I push into the back of my board to regain my balance. I trust myself enough not to fall. I trust my body enough to go faster. I trust. I trust enough to get on the lift again to take me back to the top of the mountain.

I haven’t strapped into my snowboard in 5 years. I haven’t been back to the top of the mountain. I lost trust in myself. In my body. I have a new mountain I’m traversing and I don’t always know how to ride it. How do I go from being so high above the world I’m touching God, to feeling so low and disconnected from the world, only looking down at my feet so I don’t fall? What way is there when you cascade from crest to nadir? Having my board strapped to my feet was like an appendage, now I can’t even shut my eyes in the shower. Reconciling what I could do before, versus what I can’t do now is perhaps my greatest, among many, challenges of MS.

I’m on my knees in a ravine beholding this new peak I must reach without being able to run, walk or climb. Like standing on top of the mountain, my lungs burning with each breath and no way down but to ride, I find I don’t have a choice. My only way out of the canyon is to move. If I can’t move physically, then I will have to maneuver with the other parts of myself. My compassion and intellect and creativity. The insatiable, unquenchable longing to learn. My incessant need for connection and understanding others’ experiences. The faith I clasp that each step will take me onward. What will I find when I reach the apex I do not know, but I trust, like my legs and my core did before, these parts of myself will propel me. Perhaps, just as I did on the wintry pinnacle, I will feel the divine once again.  

Are there things you find you could do before you were ill, that you can’t do now? What parts of yourself have come to the forefront after you could no longer do the things you used to be able to do? How have you changed your perception of how to traverse your mountain? What do you hope to find when you reach the top?