Climbing Mountains…
I’m sitting here in the café, at the bottom of the M1 at Coronet Peak. It’s beautiful! Dusk is falling, the floodlights are coming on, the air is biting as its new chill fills my lungs, and all around me are the sounds of skiers and riders, excited for the end of the week and the night of skiing ahead.
I look at the slope and I remember how it looked to me when we first settled here. Impossibly steep! I wondered how I would ever find the courage to ski down; I marvelled that folk were doing so without a second’s thought or hesitation. They looked so effortless and fluid. Would I? Could I? Ever?
And, I would and I could. After six seasons of ski kindy and my son’s whole childhood, I have climbed the mountain. And it fills me with joy and an incredible sense of fulfilment that this is my story and a place where I belong.
The girl at the top of the mountain didn’t fall there. She climbed. And I now know I can climb anything…
The top of the mountain.