Tag Archives: paying attention

Riding a Chairlift

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Niseko Japan

Single Chairlifts offer lots of time to think

The number one objective of a ski area is to provide uphill transportation. All the other stuff–the schincter-tightening bowls, the alpine-style restaurants, the crowded bathrooms, the fresh corduroy, the terrain parks with the their diligent crews raking and raking, the ski instructors with impossibly perfect hair–all of that is just a bonus. A ski area wouldn’t be a ski area without a way to get you uphill.

I’ve ridden a lot of chairlifts in my life. And yes, they are very efficient at getting me back to the top. But they have another purpose too. Chairlifts are a place to stop, to regroup, to remember why it is I live in the mountains, why I love to slide on snow, and why I could never live in the city.

Sometimes it feels like I’ve lived entire lifetimes seated on a lift. I’ve laughed with friends and cried alone. I’ve been mesmerized by the brilliant sparkle of sun on snow; I’ve witnessed marriage proposals and spectacular crashes. I’ve also noticed work to be done–tower pads that needed raising, sticks of bamboo that needed straightening, pieces of trash that needed to be picked up.

Last week I spoke at my father’s funeral. The very act of getting up in front of family and friends and declaring the importance of such a great man in my life has altered something in me. It has made me reevaluate what is truly important.

Big Sky, MT

Big Sky, MT

For years on my father’s desk he kept a motto written on a yellow sticky note. It read, “If it’s green, golf it. If it’s white, ski it. We’re not here for a long time. We’re here for a good time.”

Life provides us with all too many opportunities to waste our days. Jealousy, anger, having far too thin of skin, taking things personally, these all help us squander our short time here. Distraction from real life is another wasteful act.

We're riding a lift!

We’re riding a lift!

 

But riding a chairlift is an opportunity to engage. Sometimes draw-droppingly picturesque and other times cloaked in clouds, the views always change. No matter what the scenery offers, I always remember to stop. To breathe. To look around. To remember what it important.

Because like a brilliant man once said, we’re not here for a long time. We’re here for a good time.

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Pay Attention to the Good Stuff

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As good as it gets

If there is one phrase I would like to tattoo onto the back of my hand as a constant reminder it is this: Pay attention to the good stuff.

Yesterday, as I sat in the doctor’s office, waiting to see the hand surgeon, I felt myself sinking a little into a funk. I was beginning to realize that just because the stitches were out, my thumb still hurt, and I still wouldn’t be able to move it for two months and even though we had planned to go on a surfing trip this week, instead I was in the doctor’s office with a shriveled and bruised right hand that could have belonged to Frankenstein’s monster, and I was feeling a little sorry for myself.

On the wall of the doctor’s office is a sketch to help patients describe their pain on a scale of 0 to 10. 0 is no pain and 10 is unbearable, excruciating pain. Each number corresponds with a drawing of a face in varying amounts of distress. The 0 face is smiling and the 10 face is crying. Looking around at the world, most people’s faces reflect the same sightly-frowning, arched-eyebrowed 6 face.

6 hurts.

But it isn’t until you’ve visited 10 does your perspective change. Once you’ve felt 10, everything else feels more like a 2. Because unless you have suffered a great loss–an unbearable, devastating loss–do you realize how good you actually have it.

Most of us haven’t felt a 10. Most of us are fortunate. When John was sick, his physical pain level fluctuated between 8 and 10 for an entire year. For me, my emotional pain dipped down into the 4 range during hopeful moments and spiked into the double digits during our darkest days. Even though it wasn’t a physical pain–like the sharp ache of a bone being drilled in order to sew a severed tendon back in place–it was unbearable.

When I remember how fortunate I am to still have my husband with me, this current, annoying pain in my thumb almost disappears. This is no 6. Not even close. Those who have visited 10 know what I’m talking about it.

So maybe the three-inch scar on my right thumb will act as a reminder, like a piece of string tied around my index finger, to pay attention. The good stuff isn’t going to last forever. Powder gets tracked up, kids grow up, our hips and shoulders wear out, and not one of us is getting out of this thing alive.

Instead of dwell on the negatives, it is better to pay attention when life is good–when the cherry blossoms pop on the trees along the street, the way my husband smiles when he’s happy, the sparkle of sunlight on fresh snow. Don’t rush, Kim. Pay attention. This right here is the good stuff.