When I was 8 my dad took my brother and I cross-country skiing. I can now applaud his courage to introduce his sons to a subtle outdoor hobby. But at the time I thought he was nuts. Not only was it cold, but the point of this strange activity was completely undecipherable. If we wanted to hike, why not simply hike and take off these awkward-untrimmed toenail-like skis? The experience was miserable enough that for weeks after the fact I referred to the activity with complete seriousness as “uphill skiing.” 

This winter I returned to the hobby with much different results. The appeal of this quirky sport steadily rose, probably for several reasons. Some of it due to its counter-cultural appeal. Instead of requiring the purchase of lift tickets the price of lawn mowers,I can partake in this hobby for free. My “gear” consists of skis discarded in my neighbor’s ‘free pile’ and bamboo ski poles (also free) that are older than I am. Not only is it thrifty, but it bucks the trend of downhill skiers slogging through icy roads that would be dangerous if the traffic choked cars were actually moving. 

Even describing the sport as ‘skiing' seems overstated. For that term implies some degree of speed, which in my experience is elusive. ‘Glide walking’ seems a more apt-description, but that phrase was already taken by an intermediate aerobics class in 1993. ‘Cross country’ infers a wilderness element needed to maintain the glass-like ego of us outdoor enthusiasts. 

Let’s be clear: my enjoyment is in no way connected to competence. My technique is undoubtedly suspect. Synchronizing the movement of my arms and legs is choppy, as if wax needs to be applied to more than just my skis. My arms flail and spasm, grasping for balance. In these frequent moments of awkwardness, I remember my Norwegian friend Gisle. What does he look like when he skis? Well, apart from his classy wool sweater, I’d imagine his skis and poles move with fluid and unforced intuition. But, every now and then, the hot mess express derails, and there are occasional moments of success. 

My skis nestle within the groomed tracks. 
The hill’s downhill bend extends my stride.  
My skis and poles quit their bickering and work together. 

These occasional moments of quasi-competence, stir an interest in the significance of cross country skiing. Underlying metaphors and significance seem ripe for discovering. But those are the love-struck words after a third date, not the slow wisdom grown over years of attentiveness. Even so, the rhythm of cross-country skiing calls out to be noticed. 

I shouldn’t be surprised. The metronomic casting of fly rods and repeating cadence of shooting three pointers has animated my body and mind for years. The near limitless opportunity for repetition provided room to experiment with small adjustments, in hopes the rhythm’s current might be joined and not labored against. 

What is it about rhythm? What does it offer that feels so needed? Perhaps its allure is tied to its scarcity. Is my life lacking the repeated rituals needed to offer grounding? We have phrases that reveal our arhythmic living. To “grind it out” or “go with the flow” infers a lack of congruence or pattern in our lives. Or, when we are aware of the repetitive nature of life, we bemoan it. 

“Another day, another dollar.” 
“Same song, different verse.” 

This frustration towards repetition often sours my view of folding laundry and unloading the dishwasher. Why then does repetition only sweeten the experience of cross-country skiing? Perhaps because I submit to it. Instead of bracing against the boredom and restriction of repeated movement, I settle in, believing goodness is near. How unexpected, that enjoyment waits within repetition and submission. 

The moments of deepest satisfaction and resonance in my life have not been the results wrung from white-knuckled independence. They have emerged within the dance of offering and submitting, driven by the “unforced rhythms of grace.” A rhythm wild enough to find our hobbies, chores, and each hope-thirsty fold of our lives. 

What rhythms have you settled into? 
What repetitions have you braced against?

Jesse French, Executive Director