Day One

My alarm goes off at 6 a.m. The lulling murmurs of NPR wake me. It’s Thursday, but I’m not waking up to go to court or the Asylum Office, I’m waking up to hit the ski slopes.

Today is Day One of 120 days without an alarm prodding me out of bed to work. I’m not quite sure what to call this time—I referred to it as a “leave of absence” when I sent out an email to the community partners whom I work with, but then half of them thought I was pregnant and the other half were alarmed that something was wrong. Somehow referring to it as a four-month vacation seems terribly self-indulgent, but I guess that’s what it is. I could feel myself wearying of the world and losing patience with my clients, my students, and myself. Time to re-charge.

I load my car, still yawning and tripping over my own feet. I haven’t done day trips since I was a little kid when we would wake up at 4 a.m. to get to Tahoe as soon as the lifts started running. I would put on the scratchy, hand-me-down long underwear from my brother that had the boy panel in the front for easy access. How I hated those! We would pile into Dad’s green Ford Bronco, which was such a bumpy ride that the radio tuner changed stations on its own. I would sleep the whole way up, until Mom pulled out the Cup O Noodles and the thermos of hot water for breakfast. By the end of a full day, I was always so tired that my father had to carry my skis back to the car for me.

There is comfort for me in these mountains.

It is a bluebird day—bright blue skies and fresh snow in the tree branches.

I feel the energy from the mountain, from the squeaking snow below my feet, from the rhythm of my skis and body working together, and from the wind in my face as I fly. When I was little, I always sang as I skied. I feel fearless—that there isn’t any anything I couldn’t do. My thoughts run free. I think about the next four months, I think about the errands I have to run before I leave, I think about Haiti, I think about the cases I have waiting for me when I return.  These thoughts run into and out of my head, bumping about without any organization.

My thoughts seem comfortingly small out here.