The Mindful Migraine

Ok, so now I’ve got your attention, this blog post IS about skiing, but only by way of a memory that serves as a lesson.  When I was about ten years old, I was lucky enough to go on a holiday to the snow with my family.  My two younger sisters and I were enrolled in a learn to ski class.  The memory is literally 40 years old, but I’m guessing we were in a class of about 12 kids around our age, and all ‘absolute beginners’.

In order to ski down a hill, you have to get to the top of that hill.  And to get to the top of the hill, you sit on a thing called a T-Bar.  As the name suggests, the seat is an upside-down T.  The middle pole goes up to a wire and you and a friend (or sister) each sit on one of the two horizontal arms.  Having to get onto one of these things is a trick in itself.  Then you have to keep your skis parallel and facing uphill all the way.  Then you have to glide off at the top of the hill and get out of the way before the next couple arrives.  It’s all happening in a sort of slow motion, so in theory it’s all doable.

Until it’s not.

On about the third trip up the hill, I got all wobbly-boots, and the tips of my skis crossed.  If I’d been quick enough, I could have pulled them apart, but instead they made a little plough that wedged into the snow.  Which meant, the skis stayed put, but I kept being pulled up the hill by the T-bar.

Long story short, I came a cropper.  That would have been bad enough, but I also didn’t recover fast enough to roll out of the way of the next pair of kids that were being dragged up the hill behind me.  In a comedy capers moment, I got wedged in between their legs and sent them flying.  They, of course, then sent the next two kids tumbling down.  By the time one of the lift operators realized there was kid-carnage going on and the T-bar got turned off, I think half the class was waiting at the top of the hill with the teacher, and the rest of us were all piled up higgledy-piggledy across the slope.

To this day, I can remember the intense shame that I felt for falling over. 

I remember the humiliation caused from overhearing the other kids cursing.  The guilt, when everyone was lamenting the fact that their boots were now filled with melting snow, or their goggles were cracked.  And when the teacher arrived and scolded us for being clumsy dunces, I remember the terror of waiting for him to figure out who it was that sent the dominoes tumbling.  In a moment of silent comradery, my sister stayed mute, and no one was the wiser.

Here’s the thing; looking back on the event, I can understand the feeling of embarrassment, but not the shame.  I was a kid, and more importantly, I was a learner.  What happened was an accident, pure and simple.  I never meant to cause harm.  I didn’t want us to be in this position.  It was never my intention to be a clumsy dunce and look a fool.  I was there to learn, and if all I learnt was that I’m not a natural born skier, so be it! 

(As it turned out, we all got up and skied down to the bottom of the T-Bar and went up again and again.  Eventually, after a couple of seasons I could ‘cut the slopes’ with all the other mediocre skiers, and then a year or two later, I stopped going, and I’ve never set foot on snow ever since).

As life-long learners the first thing we have to do is admit that we don’t know everything.  We need to accept that in our attempt to try new things, we’re going to make mistakes.  Falling over at some point during the journey is a given.  Moreover, as chronic pain people, there is no way, on our uphill health battle that we’re not going to inconvenience someone… disappoint someone… fail someone.

I’m sorry to all those kids that I turned into a human pile of debris on the side of the T-bar slope.  It was me!!!  I did it.  I’m not proud of my contributory role in the day’s shenanigans, but I’m not going to be ashamed of it anymore.

Sh!t happens – I’m going to own it – and then MOVE ON.

On our journeys to good health all that really matters is our good intentions, and our determination to get up morning after morning and keep moving.

Here’s to you, all my little metaphorical ski bunnies; may your day be filled with tenacious, clumsy, learning!

Linda x