A wordless meme is just the thing as I wait for the words to be free.
On Sunday we went to the Ice Magic Festival. It was a rough day with the toddler, but the scenery was quite magical. See?
He liked skating, and I think he thought the ice castle was pretty cool, but the impromptu ice slide was his favourite. Can you blame him? He is three, after all.
Happy (mostly wordless) Wednesday.
So we did it. We went skiing and no one broke a leg. We all had a blast, including (perhaps especially) the toddler. Photographic evidence:
It takes a few people to get a kid onto skis for the first time.
But we did it! Doesn’t he look proud?
Going up the lift with Uncle Greggy.
(This requires a lot of concentrating on one’s feet, apparently.)
Here he comes!
“Let’s go again!” (and again and again and again…)
The big kids did a few big-kid runs too.
My superstar sister pulled out some tricks. #actionshot #notreally
Me at the top of the hill.
(Have you noticed I don’t post a lot of pictures of myself here? Now you know why.)
Turn the camera around. (Ah, that’s better.) The view from the top of the hill.
Most excellent fun. We’ll definitely do it again.
PS I forgot to tell you! I’m a finalist for a Canadian Weblog Award in the Health & Wellness category. Blimey! How cool is that?
Near the western edge of Calgary stands a legacy. From a distance you can easily see a tall tower, standing at the edge of a hill. Jutting out from it are several ramps, whose purpose the tower supports. The slope of the hill is dotted with Ts, row after row of them with a function that’s hard to discern from a distance. The entire hill is snow-covered, glistening white, especially at night when the lights flood the landscape making the whole place shine out across the city.
High atop the hill, a spot of colour on a stark background, stands a Canada flag.
This park was the home of several events—bobsleigh, ski jumping, some skiing—during the 1988 Winter Olympics. It has always been there, visible from so many places in the city, yet I’d never been up there. Until yesterday.
As part of our explorations while we eagerly await winter, we ventured up to the park to watch a freestyle skiing competition. COP, as it’s affectionately known, is a popular destination for skiers who don’t want to head too far out of the city to get a few runs in. It’s a great place for lessons, or so my husband says, as this is where he learned to ski.
One of the first things I noticed at my new job was one of the digital signs in the building promoting a family ski night at the park in mid-January. “We should go!” I thought, and then thought better of it. I haven’t skied for years. Years. I dread to think what the experience would be like now. (Or maybe I just dread making a fool of myself in front of new co-workers.)
We’ve tossed around the idea of going. It’s cheap, so if I fall flat on my face I can always head inside and attempt to swallow my pride along with some hot chocolate and an apple turnover. It also seems like a good option for introducing Connor to skiing. But, oh lordy, it just seems like such an undertaking.
And then, Saturday afternoon. There we were, all three of us out together walking the dog. We crossed the field near our house, dodging stubborn chunks of snow determined to last until the next snowfall. I chased Connor, then raced him, several times over, to toddler-selected finish lines. The air was brisk – refreshing but not finger-freezing cold. It felt…alive. Vibrant.
Unprompted, my husband brought up the ski night. He seemed hesitant, just as I had been. But then my word for the year came back to me.
We could choose not to go, I said, and say we’ll do it another time. But when? We could easily end up living here for years, never doing any of the things I’m looking forward to so much. Shouldn’t we go now, when the opportunity is there, accessible and inexpensive?
So we’re going.
Wish me luck. Or, at the very least, that I don’t break a leg.
Moving from the mild west coast, we had braced ourselves for the reality of a harsh Canadian winter on the prairies.
Not so much, as it turns out.
At least not so far, anyway. It snowed shortly after we moved, which made for lovely winter walks, but it hasn’t snowed since and it hasn’t even been especially cold.
Everyone keeps commenting on how nice Mother Nature has been to us so far, and I do appreciate it. But I’m secretly a little bit disappointed. I love snow, and I’m perfectly prepared for it to get cold. Plus I’ve got a long list of things I want to do, and many of them are classic winter activities.
There’s still snow on the ground (in some places, anyway) and the local ski hill has been doing a good job making their own. We ventured up there today (more on that tomorrow) and then, with the spirit of adventure and wanting to explore some more, went down to the lagoon to watch people skating.
Apparently it’s just cold enough to keep the lagoon frozen, though it was definitely getting damp in certain areas. We walked around on the ice and watched others skate, gathering once in a while around the fire pits to warm up or drink a warm drink. Music rang out from speakers in the park, and overall it was a perfectly lovely way to spend an afternoon.
Harsh cold or not, we’ll be back with skates in hand.
Again this year, my word found me. I clicked a link to a post on the one-word theme and there it was.
You know how things stick in your brain? They take up residence and stand sentry, saying, “For now, you will see everything through my lens.” Ideas do that to me, as do perspectives and my heart’s greatest desires.
And words. Words do that to me all the time.
This one has unequivocally moved in. It has brought its things—its toiletries and its lists and its ambitions—and it appears intent on staying here through the year. So I’ve decided to let it.
Image credit: D Sharon Pruitt on Flickr
vi·brant [vahy-bruh
nt]
1. pulsating with vigor and energy: the vibrant life of a large city.
Vibrant.
Alive.
Full of life.
Last year, my word (“seek”) was a verb. I never realized it until now, comparing the two. But a verb it was, and a verb was what I needed.
This year my word is an adjective, and that seems appropriate too. It describes how I want to be, and feel, and live my life.
So “vibrant” it is.
2012, let’s do this.
