Today I felt like a beginner again. I was anxious and excited. I worried whether those brain synapses I'd last used over 12 years ago were still intact. Did I have enough kinesthetic memory to pull it off?  

Some people skied on Monday, a few more on Tuesday, but today (Wednesday) was the first day it wasn't snowing and the conditions were pleasant. (Though I'm not sure so many people would consider a high of 20 degrees pleasant). 

Thankfully, a friend asked me to go skiing with her today, which added an odd blend of comfort and additional stress. It's one thing to fail (or fall, as the case may be) on your own, but to look like a beginner in front of a new friend is, well, you know.  

In the end, she was supportive and considerate and I did it. I didn't fall, but I won't say I was any kind of ace either. I'm not going to ski tomorrow, mainly because the snow just wasn't ready; at least not for me. But after the next big snowfall I'll be more prepared. And will probably start with a green (beginner run). 

After all, what's so wrong with being a beginner anyway?  

The other day's post was about writing like it matters. Today it's about writing like you're in love. 

I don't know who made this meme, but it's a good one. Got me for sure. And got "me" for sure. 

I know not all writers write like they're in love. Some don't love their characters or even their readers. Some even have the intent to frighten their readers with no other "higher" purpose than that. 

When I saw this quote, it mirrored how I feel about writing in general, and this blog in particular. My love for Aspen for sure. And my love for the changes in my life that have happened (and are still happening) because I stepped out on that cliff, took a chance and jumped. 

If I ever write my autobiography, the title I want to use is "Taking a Flying Leap: How Being Pushed Out of a Cliff by Corporate America taught Me to Fly."  

With my other writing, I intend to communicate like a writer in love. Even if there are twists and turns in a story, I pursue a message that leads to self-understanding, learning, growth and, yes, love. 

With Love,

Brownell

It's starting to happen. A little late, but it looks like it's finally here. 

The snow. 

Yes, it's snowed before, and there was still some snow on the ground (and most importantly the slopes) from the white stuff that came down on Thanksgiving, but this feels like the real stuff. The accumulation. The other was a tease, this is real. 

I went hiking up in the snow on Thursday and Saturday and ran into a couple visiting from Chicago. It was a beautiful day and they probably wouldn't have been able to hike that mountain if the snow on the opposite cliff (Aspen mountain, aka Ajax) had had enoughbase to ski, but I still understood their lament. They'd come here to ski – not hike, and their vacation was hampered. 

It's easy for some of us to ignore or even (silently) celebrate the reality of climate change caused by humans. Maybe we want warmer winters. But that's selfish in the big picture. Not only does this global crisis mean these tourists were disappointed. It means that our planet is, too. 

When I write this blog every day, sometimes I wonder: does it matter? Does anyone read it? Does it matter if they don't?  

It's a literal question for this blog, yet it's also a philosophical and metaphysical message, too. Along the lines of ""f a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?"  

I sometimes get torn, weighing the way I spend my time. If I'm the only person who learns from this post, does it matter? How about if only one other person? Two? A hundred? That's the "worth it" number?  

As I'm writing this blog I am also working on several other writing projects. A book collaboration that I'm planning on releasing this year or early next year. A movie script I just finished. A book series of short stories. Finishing a previously unfinished novel. And edits on my other books. 

And this blog. 

Hopefully all of it will "matter." 

More tomorrow. 

Yesterday was a day of streaming. Double entendre intended.  Part of the day working diligently on a new book and the other part looking at mountains and streams.  

It was also a day of giving thanks.  We'd gotten another snowfall in Aspen, something we desperately need to feed the cravings of the tourists, many of whom spent a small fortune to come here for the holiday weekend. (Not to mention the locals excited to get out and hit the slopes). So the snow was reason to celebrate, even if it wasn't enough to blanket the mountain enough to open the runs. 

What I didn't expect was that it was not only possible to go hiking up a mountain in the snow, it was exhilaratingly pleasant. And I wasn't the only one.  The video below was taken from the top of Smuggler's mountain.  In it you can see Ajax (Aspen Mountain), Aspen Highlands ski mountain/resort and Tiehack/Buttermilk. 

It's breathtaking enough to see a mountain covered in snow, but to see the ski runs light up with the bright white lines?  Awesome. Rad. Groovy. Perfectomundo.  

Today is the day to give thanks. 

Since most days this blog is, in one way or another, a celebration of gratitude for my new home, it's a bit redundant. Yet still important.

I'm reminded of my mantra/prayer I had when I first came here: "Lord let me not become complacent about the beauty of this place."  Yesterday I met a lovely couple as I hiked down the mountain, and I relayed this verse. They had both been here a long time: one for over 40 years and one for nearly 20. They assured me – there is no risk in that. They marvel every single day at the blessing of living here. 

The funny thing about gratitude is also surprising. You'd think that if you have a magnificent mountain to look at from your bedroom window, or the soothing yet powerful sound and force of the Roaring Fork river behind you, that you'd miss the little things, too. Actually, it's quite the opposite. I find myself appreciating the drain-strainer I bought. The new shower curtain. The push on and off light to guide me up and down stairs. And the fact that my heart is beating regularly and allowing me to climb mountains (and hopefully go skiing on the new snow that fell last night). The little things – and the big ones. They are all blessings. 

Five months ago I was on the road between Atlanta and Aspen. Metaphorically between two worlds. On the road, but not to nowhere, as the Talking Heads sang about. No, most definitely on the road to somewhere. 

Five months.  I'm not one to usually monitor milestones, but this blog has nudged me to look at them more closely. And you know what? It's good for me. Keeps me more conscious. More focused. 

If you're considering a blog, I recommend it. Even if you don't think anyone will care about it or read it. Do it for yourself. Your own growth and learning. 

And it's gotten me to listen to Talking Heads.  Nothing wrong with that! 

Like a lot of people, I have a tendency to be a creature of habit. I find something I like – a food, store or hiking trail – I like and then do it again and again. 

Yes, I try to continue to find new things to appreciate about the familiar. Yet I realize that I miss something when I stay stuck in a rut. 

Saturday I went hiking with a friend who suggested somewhere new. A trail that felt more like Arizona than Colorado. Except for the snow as the elevation increased, that is. 

Whatever trail you take, try to look for something new. Blaze a new trail. Go for it.

Not only will you see new sights, you'll see something new in the mirror, too.

The words, "you can't go home again" in passage from Thomas Wolfe is often quoted. I'll be transparent and say that I haven't read the book from which this is taken. So I don't know the context Wolfe intended. 

For some, I suspect the saying reflects melancholy. An irretrievable lost past. 

For me, it suggests separation, but in a different way. More like expansion. 

Have you ever noticed that once you've left "home" and traveled and lived elsewhere, home doesn't look quite the same? Your old house seems so much smaller. You feel too big to fit anymore. It's like as Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “The mind, once stretched by a new idea, never returns to its original dimensions.”

I'm going back to Atlanta for a few days in a few weeks. It was my home for nearly 30 years. Yet I already feel distant from it, like it wouldn't fit the new me ever again.