Fluffy Kitty
Ski Diva Extraordinaire
I know today is going to be a fantastic groomer day. There has not been a powder dump for a few days, and the temperature has been hovering just below freezing. Yesterday was sunny and warm, by skiers’ standards, so it may be a bit icy to start with, but it is going to be super fantastic snow today. At least, where it is groomed.
As I toss my pre-packed ski bag into the car, I think of the mundane masses of people, those who complain about the weather, complain about the cold, complain about the rain, and cheerfully observe that it has not yet snowed in town this year, isn’t that great.
Seagulls.
If you are a person of a certain age—you know, if your doctor has strongly recommended you get a screening colonoscopy—you are familiar with the book Jonathan Livingston Seagull. I came across the book in my early teens, and loved every bit of it, the story of a seagull who tires of the mundane lives of seagulls, obsessing about food, fighting one another over food, and discovers the joy of flying for flying’s sake. More, he pushes and pushes himself to reach higher, fly faster, soar high above the land upon which the seagulls and their daily concerns are confined. There is a great turning point when he discovers another love-of-flying seagull who becomes his mentor, and another one when he returns to his own flock and starts recruiting disciples to mentor. Upon death, the mentor seagull fades away to a higher plane of existence, a transcendence which (spoiler alert!) Jonathan himself achieves, and which has since been copied by the likes of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Wesley Crusher.
I never did see the movie—although I had found out about the movie first—because I had asked a friend who had seen the movie what he thought of it. He described it as, “It’s just a bunch of seagulls squawking around.” And, if you’ve seen the book, you know that the book is full of pictures of seagulls, and, honestly, they look like a bunch of seagulls squawking around. Even the photos of Jonathan soaring into the sky, you know they are just pictures of ordinary seagulls taken by the seashore.
Still, he was soaring above the squawking masses. Transcendent. Truly flying, in the literal and metaphorical sense.
And I am driving up the mountain, soaring above everyone, so that I may...
Of course, once I reach the slopes, I feel like an ordinary seagull again. There sure are a lot of people on the hills, squawking around. Worse, we look less like seagulls than like penguins, in our generously insulated outfits and heavily clad feet, waddling around the base lodge like flightless nothings.
And among the penguins, I do not stand out. I am back in the flock again. Even as I reach the peak and careen down, I am one among many.
And I do not dare entertain the idea that somehow I could stand out, that I could be better. If that were to ever occur to me, I would be reminded that there are true Jonathan Livingston Seagulls among us penguins.
Oh, look, there is the slalom course set up for the racing team. And look at them swooshing down the hill, dripping with talent, confidence, and competence. On their way to the course, a small gaggle of racers are picking their way down the lift line, which consists entirely of frozen crud with frozen tracks many inches deep.
And there is that narrow ribbon of grooming on a thirty-degree black trail, and someone is short-radius-turning down, not a beat of his rhythm disturbed by the gulch running down one side.
How do they do this? Can they teach me? Will they be my Jonathan Livingston Seagull?
I try going down an easier groomed black. I have no choice but to be cautious, irregular, flailing.
I remember a bit where Jonathan Livingston Seagull discovers that he could initiate a swooping turn with just a flick of the tip of his wing.
No little flick for me. It’s a struggle that consumes my whole body. I know I look messy as I barely hold the edge.
The next run, I head toward a moderate blue trail that used to be my favorite. It is not a very popular trail, so I spent many days there getting used to what were then my new skis, determined to learn to carve, determined to move on from intermediate to advanced. Now that I do not confine myself to smooth groomers, I do not return there very often.
And there, among the seagulls gawking down the narrow entrance to the trail, wondering if they could handle it, I spot her: the Jonathan Livingston Ski-girl! She launches herself down without hesitation, and carves her way forward, extending and retracting her legs with YouTube-worthy precision, slicing through the little piles of crud.
I follow her down.
I feel inspired.
I find myself speeding down the hill faster than I had ever skied on this trail, certainly faster and more sure-footed than when I was fledging here. I start to feel what it feels like when my left ski’s inside edge solidly engages. After all these years, I can finally feel what it feels like to be confident. Sure-footed. Competent.
To my surprise, I ski right past my Jonathan Livingston Ski-girl. For a moment, I wonder if she sees me. I wonder if she approves of my skiing. I wonder if she could give me that one pointer I need. Mentor me.
Be my Obi-Wan.
When I reach the bottom of the hill, I see her coming down, and I realize she was far behind me. As I rest to catch my breath, I see her load onto the lift, and she looks tired. When she reaches the top of the hill, she heads toward the lodge.
Then it occurs to me, I just outskied her. I mean, speed isn’t everything, but I was confident. I was sure-footed. I was competent. She started the trail with strength and confidence, but could not keep it up, I remember noticing. She had lost her verve by the time I overtook her.
Huh.
Feeling an emotion I cannot name, I shrug and go on. I am almost done with the day myself.
As I drive into town, I stop at an intersection, and see a couple of bikers on Harley choppers. I lock eyes with one of them, or so I think—he is wearing dark sunglasses, and I am wearing dark sunglasses, so one cannot be sure. Regardless, I can feel what he’s thinking about me.
Seagull.
The light changes, and we move on.
Back to my mundane life.
What’s for dinner?
As I toss my pre-packed ski bag into the car, I think of the mundane masses of people, those who complain about the weather, complain about the cold, complain about the rain, and cheerfully observe that it has not yet snowed in town this year, isn’t that great.
Seagulls.
If you are a person of a certain age—you know, if your doctor has strongly recommended you get a screening colonoscopy—you are familiar with the book Jonathan Livingston Seagull. I came across the book in my early teens, and loved every bit of it, the story of a seagull who tires of the mundane lives of seagulls, obsessing about food, fighting one another over food, and discovers the joy of flying for flying’s sake. More, he pushes and pushes himself to reach higher, fly faster, soar high above the land upon which the seagulls and their daily concerns are confined. There is a great turning point when he discovers another love-of-flying seagull who becomes his mentor, and another one when he returns to his own flock and starts recruiting disciples to mentor. Upon death, the mentor seagull fades away to a higher plane of existence, a transcendence which (spoiler alert!) Jonathan himself achieves, and which has since been copied by the likes of Obi-Wan Kenobi and Wesley Crusher.
I never did see the movie—although I had found out about the movie first—because I had asked a friend who had seen the movie what he thought of it. He described it as, “It’s just a bunch of seagulls squawking around.” And, if you’ve seen the book, you know that the book is full of pictures of seagulls, and, honestly, they look like a bunch of seagulls squawking around. Even the photos of Jonathan soaring into the sky, you know they are just pictures of ordinary seagulls taken by the seashore.
Still, he was soaring above the squawking masses. Transcendent. Truly flying, in the literal and metaphorical sense.
And I am driving up the mountain, soaring above everyone, so that I may...
Of course, once I reach the slopes, I feel like an ordinary seagull again. There sure are a lot of people on the hills, squawking around. Worse, we look less like seagulls than like penguins, in our generously insulated outfits and heavily clad feet, waddling around the base lodge like flightless nothings.
And among the penguins, I do not stand out. I am back in the flock again. Even as I reach the peak and careen down, I am one among many.
And I do not dare entertain the idea that somehow I could stand out, that I could be better. If that were to ever occur to me, I would be reminded that there are true Jonathan Livingston Seagulls among us penguins.
Oh, look, there is the slalom course set up for the racing team. And look at them swooshing down the hill, dripping with talent, confidence, and competence. On their way to the course, a small gaggle of racers are picking their way down the lift line, which consists entirely of frozen crud with frozen tracks many inches deep.
And there is that narrow ribbon of grooming on a thirty-degree black trail, and someone is short-radius-turning down, not a beat of his rhythm disturbed by the gulch running down one side.
How do they do this? Can they teach me? Will they be my Jonathan Livingston Seagull?
I try going down an easier groomed black. I have no choice but to be cautious, irregular, flailing.
I remember a bit where Jonathan Livingston Seagull discovers that he could initiate a swooping turn with just a flick of the tip of his wing.
No little flick for me. It’s a struggle that consumes my whole body. I know I look messy as I barely hold the edge.
The next run, I head toward a moderate blue trail that used to be my favorite. It is not a very popular trail, so I spent many days there getting used to what were then my new skis, determined to learn to carve, determined to move on from intermediate to advanced. Now that I do not confine myself to smooth groomers, I do not return there very often.
And there, among the seagulls gawking down the narrow entrance to the trail, wondering if they could handle it, I spot her: the Jonathan Livingston Ski-girl! She launches herself down without hesitation, and carves her way forward, extending and retracting her legs with YouTube-worthy precision, slicing through the little piles of crud.
I follow her down.
I feel inspired.
I find myself speeding down the hill faster than I had ever skied on this trail, certainly faster and more sure-footed than when I was fledging here. I start to feel what it feels like when my left ski’s inside edge solidly engages. After all these years, I can finally feel what it feels like to be confident. Sure-footed. Competent.
To my surprise, I ski right past my Jonathan Livingston Ski-girl. For a moment, I wonder if she sees me. I wonder if she approves of my skiing. I wonder if she could give me that one pointer I need. Mentor me.
Be my Obi-Wan.
When I reach the bottom of the hill, I see her coming down, and I realize she was far behind me. As I rest to catch my breath, I see her load onto the lift, and she looks tired. When she reaches the top of the hill, she heads toward the lodge.
Then it occurs to me, I just outskied her. I mean, speed isn’t everything, but I was confident. I was sure-footed. I was competent. She started the trail with strength and confidence, but could not keep it up, I remember noticing. She had lost her verve by the time I overtook her.
Huh.
Feeling an emotion I cannot name, I shrug and go on. I am almost done with the day myself.
As I drive into town, I stop at an intersection, and see a couple of bikers on Harley choppers. I lock eyes with one of them, or so I think—he is wearing dark sunglasses, and I am wearing dark sunglasses, so one cannot be sure. Regardless, I can feel what he’s thinking about me.
Seagull.
The light changes, and we move on.
Back to my mundane life.
What’s for dinner?
