Homage to Helen.

I went cross-country skiing today. This was the second time I went out this year. New snow was on the ground and the trails were freshly groomed.

It is so lovely to go out skiing under those conditions. Twenty-eight degrees, no wind, fresh snow and freshly groomed trails. As I waxed up my old wooden skis I remembered Helen Johnson. She was the mother of my long-lost boyfriend Dave. She was the first person to show me how to ski, some thirty years ago. I absolutely loved it and have been doing it ever since.

Helen died last September. And with each crisp breath I took and every stride of the skis across the path I remembered little things about Helen.

She had a big smile. She made you feel like you were OK. Even when you felt like the biggest reddest puffiest zit right in the middle of somebody’s nose. She was very matter-of-fact about things. And she’d narrate little factoids as you did little duties. Like as we were changing out of our sweaty long underwear she said: “It’s good to put these in the wash right away, because sweat doesn’t smell when it’s wet, only when you let it dry, that’s when it gets stinky.”

She was full of all kinds of little facts. Dave took after her that way somewhat. But of course Helen was wise and much more learned.

When a woman looks back on her tangled life and finds little golden nuggets gifted from other women, especially strong, wise, women, she knows true gratitude. The appreciation I have for the type of woman Helen modeled for me has no bounds. I only wish I’d had more appreciation for her at the time. I only wish I’d have seen her brilliant and complex fabric through the shadows of my naïve teenage egocentricity.

But now I can see it. I can see it in the snow covered vista before me, and in the clouds of my frozen breath. It is a warmth in this oft times cold and heartless world. It is a gift that gives over and over again. My heart can only place it with all that I know as love.