Warm temperatures, a visit from a friend, a giant bunny that hides chicken eggs; Springtime never felt so right. Spent the long weekend in practice of many activities I take to heart. Cooked Springy meals like lamb and dorado baked in salt.
Drank Springy wine like cheap Vinho Verde and historic Brouilly. Killed some Spring time in our Springy garden.
Listened to Springtime music like The Instruments, Sam Prekop, and Sergio Mendes. Hunted for Spring snow--soft but not too mushy.
We circumnavigated the Mont Blanc Massif, though in this part of the world--the Haute Savoie--if you're not in the Mont Blanc Massif, then you're just around its corner; it occupies a significant amount of space. Featureless in its shadow, in the immediate surroundings its easy to feel like you're on top of the world, even if it's your own small one.
In the big middle of it all it's sometimes nice to know that others have the same intention. Piled rocks and scratched surfaces, broken statues and a sense of humor lend a sense of welcome to a strange and foreign country.
The skiing is the same no matter where you land. It's hardly the point. It's the getting there and being there and with who and how and what next that matters. I like to think that I ski because it allows me to skim the surface of something otherwise unknowable. All the small details that compliment the final activity secure me in this assurance and, ultimately, provide some meaning.
And sometimes it's easy and sometimes it's frightening but it's almost never what you expect and, more importantly, you might never see it again.
I often feel that I am better alone. However, I also know for certain that these feelings are tricks, and it's best to resist these tricks and try to participate in something bigger than myself, something altogether knowable. The hunt, in fact, is a game and it's a game played with others and its season never ends and there is never a fresh kill at the end of the chase. I know this, and though I resist, it often takes the culmination of several events to remind myself of the burden of solitude and the unbearable lightness of being. Thanks, Milan.
So I picked up thirds because it seemed to suit me. It's not a bad place to be, especially with the sun to keep you wrapped in the present. The days are long now and everything has changed.
You work around things and up and down and finally you come to a place that seems to fit. Well, it has to, and it usually does; there is no other way up but to come back down. In the meantime, temperatures change quickly and heart rates rise (also quickly). Those are some of the small details that make the day worth doing, the living worth living.
I stumble 'round on through my memory's maze.
It's always hard to tell if you have a friend in the sun or a great spoiler. Warmth and blue skies come with a price: unpredictable snow, dehydration, and, the worst offense, blurred vision.
Hunt long and hard enough and you'll find the spot. And though the equipment might change, the process is the same and a friend is still a friend.
Whether it takes the form of eggs, soft snow, a purpose, or a new sense of place, the Easter Bunny delivers, true to form, whatever it is that you need most. Thanks, Easter Bunny!
Thanks, Old Europe!
Thanks, fraulein Klar, for the stolen pictures (#s 4-8, 13, 15, 16).
And thanks, Hank, for picture #2.