I
revisited something new this winter and found myself feeling excited
and scared, challenged and exhilarated. I cross-country skied.
Actually, I cross-country skied for the first time last winter—only
one time and then spring came. That one time was enough—I was
hooked. I do look back and wonder why. What I remember most about
that day is falling, and falling again (and again). I also remember
getting up and trying again. I remember other skiers asking if I was
okay. I remember a lot of smiles. I remember feeling really good.
So I tried again
this year and was a bit more prepared. I bought my own skis, poles
and boots. They’re just right for me (one size does not fit all in
this sport).
As
I locked my boots onto my skis and looked down the trail, I took a
deep breath and asked myself, “Am I ready?” I was.
I
began to ski along, challenging myself to look around at the trees
and the sky. I wanted to keep my eyes safely turned to the ground.
It was easier to follow the trail then to rely on actually feeling
the movement of my skis, my legs, and my arms. To learn the trail by
rote would take some practice.
Skiing
along, I was proud that I hadn’t fallen yet. I soon realized there
were skiers on the trail behind me—a girl and a man. She was
learning to ski—he was her instructor.
It
was then that I inevitably fell. I was embarrassed for a moment. In
that moment on the ground, unhurt and struggling to get my feet under
me safely, I realized something. I hoped that girl, skiing on the
trail behind me, had seen me fall. Because I knew that I fell in the
correct form to not get hurt; I knew that while I struggled, I was
using the correct form to get back onto my feet. I hoped that girl
had seen me fall and had learned something.
I
continued on and came to a gigantic hill falling away from me. I
stood, paralyzed, wondering how I was going to get down THAT alive.
I watched another skier, fairly fresh to the sport like myself,
attempt the slope. I watched her fall and then I watched her fall
again. I knew that to advance on the trail, I needed to get past
this hill. But was I ready for it? I considered all the ways to get
past this hurtle and chose what I thought would be the easiest. I
fell, but I made it to the bottom. When I turned and looked back, I
realized it wasn’t as steep as it had looked on the other side. I
vowed to revisit that hill again and ski it until it looked like a
gentle bump from the top down.
This
winter has been a challenge, offering little snow and terrible ski
conditions. To practice this new skill, I can’t wait for the
perfect opportunity. I need to reach out and make my own
connections, find my own “perfect” place to practice. Next year,
I will be even better. The hills will still appear miles deep, but
they will be new hills—more challenging than the gentle bumps of
this year.
Skiing
and Toastmasters have a lot in common. As I strapped on my boots, I
remembered the nervousness that I felt when I stood in front of the
Eastside Madison TM Club and gave my Icebreaker speech. I remembered
the fear I felt when I thought about making a mistake in front of a
room full of people. The encouraging smiles and advice brought me
back the next meeting. The “gigantic hill” I faced in
Toastmasters was the first time I served as my club’s Toastmaster.
I will admit now that I flew down that hill a little too quickly. My
nerves were wracked and everything in me screamed to “stop!” But
I went back and learned from that. I slowed down and began to go at
a pace that was right for me. Like skiing, Toastmasters is an
ongoing learning experience. I will challenge myself and at times I
will wonder, “What was I thinking?” As the hills grow higher, so
will my confidence grow, knowing that I am ready for the next hurtle.
