I know folks who every January choose a single word or expression as a touchstone for the new year. I’ve never done that successfully. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to limit myself to one primary focus. Or perhaps I just get distracted—Hey! A squirrel!!!!—too easily.
But, a couple of weeks ago, a mantra was given to me on a ski slope in Maine, and I think it just might be The One for 2020. It’s this: Lean Forward.
I’m a cautious critter by nature. The thought of attaching to my feet two long pieces of fiberglass that are exquisitely designed to reduce friction and increase speed and then LAUNCHING myself down the side of a MOUNTAIN is, on the face of it, problematic. Heck, even the ski lift gives me the willies.
But there I was, wrapping up two hours of lessons on the super gentle "bunny" slope. At the end, our instructor—a grizzled veteran skier—squinted at Michael and me and said, “You guys did all right. You might be ready for the bigger slope, though I’d feel better if you had a more experienced skier with you.”
Aaah. We were in solid Peter Principle territory—an opportunity to rise to my level of incompetence. Yes, but I had an out! My Catholic and military upbringing had, if nothing else, taught me to respect authority. I didn’t have a more experienced skier at hand. Therefore, if I didn’t follow The Expert’s advice, something bad was bound to happen.
But then I thought of some of my more intrepid friends, who instinctively put a finger on the side of the scale that tilts towards adventure rather than caution. I wanted to be more like them.
My gut recognized something at that moment. There’s a huge difference between assuming at the get-go that you’ll probably make a mistake and things will go badly versus assuming that you and All The Things will probably be okay. The net results might not even be that different—you could ace it or break a leg either way—but the lived experience (i.e., dread vs. anticipation) will be vastly different.
I was also aware that progress happens when you push over your edge, past the point of certainty. Beyond the comfort zone, but before the panic zone.
It helps to have a partner in crime. Michael looked at me and said, “I want to do it at least once while we’re here.” It was our only day on the slopes and sunlight was waning, so I agreed.
The ski lift seemed sketchy, but miraculously I enjoyed it. I focused on the beauty around me and the fun of being with Michael. I barely noticed how far up we were, and how all of our weight was balancing on a skinny moving cable, and how the restraining bar holding us in didn’t lock.
At the top, we dismounted like pros, and it was Go Time. Michael and our other friends launched ahead of me. I took a deep breath, checked all my gear, and shoved off.
It was definitely faster than I expected, with less room to maneuver. And there were a few moments that were truly terrifying, when I was going too fast to slow down and knew it. Times when I felt like I had very little control and a rendezvous with a tree trunk was imminent. The muscles in my legs, unused to these vectors, were complaining loudly.
But I stayed up. And it was because I remembered what the instructor said: Lean forward. Against all your instincts—always forward.
It. Rocked. My. World.
Here’s the thing. When I’m on uncertain terrain (both physical and metaphorical), my overwhelming impulse is to pull back, to lean out. But when you’re on skis, apparently that’s precisely the wrong thing to do. It messes with the physics and geometry of the process and is the shortest path to a wipe out.
To maintain control and have the best chance of landing safely, you have to lean forward. You have to lean in, not pull back. Move toward, rather than away from. By doing that, you have much better ability to direct your skis and your center of gravity the way you want to—even if it’s back up the hill in a gentle swoop to slow yourself down.
But you have to embrace and respond to what’s unfolding in real time. There’s no armchair retreat (another favorite move of mine) for pondering your next move.
And I found it’s hard to lean forward and stay afraid at the same time. There’s something about the hopefulness, direction, and power of that stance that just feels good. As someone whose habitual posture is a cautious lean-back, this revelation was disorienting in the best possible way.
And, as the process unfolded, I had an amazing epiphany. “OH. This is why people ski. It’s not just about white-knuckling it down a hill to the relief (hopefully) of a safe landing. It’s kinda thrilling. In fact, it’s FUN. Who knew?!?”
I arrived at the bottom of the slope. No sign of my friends. But there was the chairlift. And I knew I had to do it again.
As I moved into position for the chair to scoop me up, I could feel a shift inside. This was a Big Deal. I could taste the deliciousness of a new, more adventurous normal.
That ride up the mountain was one of the best, most optimistic experiences of my life. (Even when it stopped for a couple of moments—previously, one of my worst nightmares.) From my perch, I spied some of my pals still making their way gingerly down the slope after a major pile-up and I waved excitedly.
Once at the top, I took a selfie to commemorate the moment. Just for a second, I entertained the possibility of a TV news report later that night: “The rescue team found his phone twenty feet from his mangled body, with this last poignant picture taken moments before his death.”
But that turned out to be anxiety, not intuition. Truth is, on the second run I had a spectacular wipe out about halfway down. I was off my skis for all of a minute. I took stock, laughed, and jumped right back in. That is, I leaned right back in.
And I’m planning to keep doing it for the rest of this year, on and off the slope.
