The sky was simply a blue-tinted white that day on the ski hills. It was powder and play all day long. We all got that kind of exhaustion that brings joy, the sort happy-emotion infuse memories are made of.
There is such a special joy in the madness that is skiing; to strap on those waxed layers of wood and invite gravity to go nuts.
In that orange ski suit, Gemma was a flame amid the ice. She burnt her way down those hills the way a woman scorned treats her old love letters.
Skiing was my dream, to be one with those pillows of white from sun up until the sky took on its more royal hues.
He rode those white hills as if they were is cloud nine. Skiing was his heart song, it made him live that little bit more brightly.
Skiing on a Sunday, that was his thing. He'd be following those hills so snuggly, his legs absorbing the undulations, the shallow and the sharp.
Behind her skis was a flurry of snow as the wake of a speed boat on water. The path she took was different each time, some get into a groove of doing the same thing over and over, not her. It was as if she challenged herself on the slopes to make new choices, to see that there were almost infinite good routes.
This time on the mountain, moving over this brilliant canvass of nature, is when I become as the moving tip of an artists brush, skipping over the soft waves of white. Skiing amid the evergreens is my time, the space allowing my soul to repair and grow.
Skiing is my love. Gliding upon the powder, the still air becomes an enlivening wind, my own blood and muscle bringing a rosy glow to my skin. The thrill of adrenaline becomes the antidote to any bitter sting of icy fragment or freshly falling snow. Never could there be any more obvious living metaphor that my own warmth and exuberant soul comes from within.
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