That Was Then …

Hannah Featherman

On a sunny afternoon in February, Don, Jesse and I took our rented cross-country skis out to a golf course that had been groomed as Nordic track. The 70-year-old proprietor put on his skis and showed us where the best hills were. They were lovely, blue shadows of pines lying along their edges. I was thrilled to be out in the beautiful snow, and on ski, under a wide expanse of sky. Shush, shush, first one foot, then the other, poling along in the snow. I was perfectly warm in layers of sweaters and a down coat.

A dark snow cloud moved in from the north as we glided over the white landscape, and soon light powder, like confectioner’s sugar, came down. We could only see it against each other’s parkas and the dark Christmas trees. The snow cloud passed, though, and the sun illuminated its edge. It was late in the day. Time to go back.

We were staying in a cabin just off the iced-in Priest Lake, 18 miles long, in Idaho, but with its tip close to Canada. Jesse had just turned 13. We picked him up in Spokane and drove an hour and a half to the big, generous Hills’ family resort, where we celebrated his birthday several years in a row. We skied along the lake too, coming inside to cook (ahi tuna over a fire!) and read. I remember finishing The Count of Monte Cristo at the end of one of these trips. The best kind of days!

I loved cross country skiing from the beginning, when my younger sister bought a pair and infected the whole family with the bug. Our cabin at the lake in Minnesota had been winterized and we went up at Christmas. It was thrilling to see my Dad, still so young, on ski. He and my brother went back into the woods and made ski trails. Again, I thought the best day in the world was one of skiing, coming in to read, and then going out again.

But that was then and this is now. I probably never got enough cross-country skiing in my life, but by now it is pretty unlikely. In six months, I will be 80, and falling is not a good idea. Plus, when we go north these days, it is usually in the summer.

I am enjoying these memories on one of the first warm days of spring, here in Los Angeles. The jacarandas are beginning to bloom, we can be out all day, and the sun is a sensual treat. And what am I doing? I am thinking about space, the intervals between things, rather than the things themselves. About snowy landscapes, clouds. About presence.

Growing up in North Dakota (we didn’t leave until I was eleven), I was fully aware of a big sky, of being able to see horizons in every direction. And I have always tried to keep my life simple, allowing for emptiness, for potential. Don, who grew up under the wide skies of the San Joaquin valley, has a similar feeling for space. 

Our tai chi practice is a very interesting study as we move our hands and bodies through the space around us. Rounded gestures work best both for martial applications and to enhance circulation throughout our bodies.

Thinking about space does seem to be more of an Asian preoccupation, than a European one. In this list of Japanese aesthetic principles, space and interval are referenced several times. Slowing down to pay attention, you can feel the space between things, sense the atmosphere around them and in their subtle presence, find their value.

Presence is another aspect to explore. Must we always be thinking? Can we not simply meet the world through our senses? This video suggests that if we quieted our incessant thinking, inner calm would reflect the world. The early samurai trained themselves to move without thinking. Breathing, just being pulls us out of chaos. We are not our thoughts, but the witness behind them.

This is harder for me. Writers think in words, always. Words, sentences are thinking. But the idea is seductive. Meet the world simply, with presence rather than thought. This is something to work on. To reclaim ordinary life, to elevate moments into poetry, to see what is around us anew. Again, we are working with value.

So this is how an older person can use their time, upgrade their tastes and find their inner clarity. And this is what I am working on. Not easy these days. I am not immune to the profound degradation of our life and culture going on in Washington, D.C. at the hands of an un-serious “leader.” But we try not to give him our precious attention, and listen to the news of the world through the lens of The Rest Is Politics with Rory Stewart and Alastair Campbell. Their perspective takes a wide view of the present and future.

From our most American of writers, in a list of advice, comes this from Jack Kerouac: “Accept loss forever.” Surely another Asian concept. The teacup is already broken. The cross-country ski hang on the wall. Space, emptiness make room for presence. I accept loss forever.