So, OK, there’s no Olympic ski racing in my future, but I started learning to downhill ski at the age of 50 and by now, at nearly 54, I’m finally getting it. And, most of all, it’s pretty much the most fun I’ve had in my whole grown-up life.
And no broken bones so far. In fact, I was so afraid of getting hurt that I didn’t fall at all my first three years of learning. Which probably kept me from learning much faster. Now, I’m trying to live by my son Elijah’s creed, that if you’re not falling, you’re not pushing yourself enough.
Last weekend I fell three times! I also tried my first little pitch of bumpy/mogul-ey black diamond trail—and it was mostly a train wreck. But I tried it—twice! I felt ridiculously proud.
In my 50’s I’m at last becoming a leading lady—in my own life. I am braver. I try new things, knowing I’ll fail. Last year I left a safe, long-time job in search of work that was both more challenging and more flexible, to give more room in my life to the writing that I care most about.
I’m on a mission to support my art, not to make it support me (to paraphrase Elizabeth Gilbert). The goal is to tend and nurture the art so it can be everything I wish for it. Which, like in skiing, means taking risks. With each new project, I try something new—and every time I wonder how I’ll pull it off. And maybe I won’t—I’ve yet to sell a book—but I can feel in my marrow that the work is maturing, coming together into stories I feel proud to share.
It’s only taken me 54 years to realize that I can’t tell stories of people being brave if all I ever do is take safe roads myself. I have to be brave to write brave stories. Which means falling down. Which means getting hurt. But OK. I agree to that deal.
Even if means that some days suck and the bruises take weeks to heal.