Soft around the edges

(Photo by Emma Carlson)

Yesterday I was at Saddleback Mountain volunteering with Maine Handicapped Skiing. I had a wondrous day in many ways. I had the pleasure and honor of being on a team working with a visually impaired skier. He and the rest of the people on the team had never skied at Saddleback and, because it used to be my home, I was the 'mountain guide'. The sky was a lovely blue, the temperature cold enough to keep the snow from becoming heavy, and the sun full of spring warmth - an unusual combination that also included incredible views of the many lakes of the Rangeley area and snow covered Mt. Washington in the distance.

In the afternoon I was asked to be the lead and there I was cruising down one of my favorite places on earth with the participant right on my tails. I felt strong and sure, confident and caring, rhythmic and right. One thing I didn't feel was sadness. That's quite something because in the past when I went to Saddleback sorrow was quite strong, missing Barry a large part of the experience. And though it has diminished over time, yesterday it just wasn't there.

This morning, though, I had a bit of a grief burst. Emotion surfaced and I started to judge - an old pattern of, "But I've done all this work, why am I sad again?" But then I recognized it for what it was and just let it go. I realized that for most all of yesterday I had simply been in the moments as they happened and that the brief tears this morning were just a delayed reaction, a very minute part of the truly wonderful experience that I shared with my participant, my team, my daughter and good friends. It was a very soft sadness that made me think of this poem. Another piece that meant one thing when I wrote it, but means something different to me now.

Soft Around the Edges

In letting go, breaking away
I’m feeling hazy.
Not lost in the fog -
just nebulous, murky, vague.
Like the morning mist that
sometimes hovers over my
beloved river
waiting for the early morning
light to gently warm the vapors
left behind by the coolness
of the night.
Soft around the edges,
muffled and serene,
it lets go in wisps
that curl away,
seeming to disappear,
yet part of an ongoing cycle.
Water attracted to water,
a haze layered over the flow.
Not threatening, or even definable,
simply there for a time.
But as always the river
knows where to go.
It doesn’t question.
It just takes whatever comes
and continues along its way.
Another lesson to be learned.
I don’t always need to know,
only to allow my self to flow.

Sarah Carlson

July 21, 2009