Katry Rain

THREE BUDDHAS OF SKIING

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THE THREE BUDDHAS

OF SKIING Paths to Advanced Performance

and Enjoyment

by

Katry Rain

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First Buddha The Body Chapter 1 You Are Not Your BodyChapter 2 Skiing Is a Body ActivityChapter 3 True Ski TechniquesChapter 4 Overcoming FearChapter 5 Your Body in the Company of SkiersChapter 6 Your Body’s Place on the Slopes

Second Buddha The Mind Chapter 1 You Are Not Your MindChapter 2 Skiing Is a Mental ActivityChapter 3 True Ski TechniquesChapter 4 Overcoming FearChapter 5 Your Mind in the Company of SkiersChapter 6 Your Mind’s Place on the Slopes

Third Buddha The Spirit Chapter 1 You Are Not Your SpiritChapter 2 Skiing Is a Spiritual ActivityChapter 3 True Ski TechniquesChapter 4 Overcoming FearChapter 5 Your Spirit in the Company of SkiersChapter 6 Your Spirit’s Place on the Slopes

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Introduction

This is a book about skiing, and you may well be wondering what is meant by the Three Buddhas, or even one Buddha, for that matter. Skiing has generally been a matter of getting into good condition, learning your moves from experts, and getting out on the slopes to practice. It’s a simple formula, works reasonably well, and is the foundation for teaching at ski schools worldwide. I’ve followed it myself. But when you get right down to it, it’s just not enough.

The reasons I say this are many, but can really be reduced to two basic ideas: one, we too often reach a plateau in our ability and no matter how hard we try, can’t seem to improve past a certain point; and two, even if we reach a reasonable level of mastery, sometimes we’re still left with a feeling of dissatisfaction, as if the experience could have been better but for some reason wasn’t. Take a second to think about it. Have you ever criticized yourself for some perceived flaw in your skiing? Have you thought about something other than the pleasure of your skiing—your equipment, your partner, snow conditions, that snowboarder, your job—that interfered with what otherwise might have been a perfect day? If you’re anything like me, the answer to both questions is probably, “way too much.”

My experience with these two things, and the experience shared with me by other skiers, made me seriously question the whole approach we’ve been taking. I began to see that good skiing, or even great skiing, involved more than training your body, then training your mind to make your body do what it wanted. This “body control” model is limited because it views

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the mind-body relationship as too much of a “one-way street” when in factit’s more of a dynamic flow in both directions. And it fails to take into account the role of the subconscious mind, a much bigger player than most of us have probably imagined. The old “body control” model puts so much emphasis on the body—what it can and can’t do, what it should do, how to make it do it—that it ignores the idea that there is an important psychological and even spiritual dimension to our lives that also needs some attention if we’re to get deeper satisfaction—call it fulfilment—from what we do. If all this is so, is there another model out there somewhere? I think there is.

I’ve chosen to focus on some images from Buddhism, not because I think skiing is a religious activity or even because I’m a Buddhist. I’m not. It’s simply because there is a state of mind that’s cultivated in Buddhism that is incredibly useful when applied to skiing, a state that draws the body, the mind and the spirit into a unity where the whole is truly more than “the sum of its parts.” Buddhism, strictly speaking, isn’t even a religion. Many devout Buddhists are even atheists! It’s better thought of as a set of principles that help create a clear, peaceful, purposeful state of mind. That’s essential in sports, no matter what the level, and equally true for us out on the slopes. It’s that frame of mind that I hope to show here—in relation to the body, the mind, and the spirit. These are the “Three Buddhas.” Taken together, they can help us move our skiing to a higher level, and get more enjoyment and satisfaction out of it as well. I’ve even made up some Buddhist stories to help make the point.

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There, that’s the theory. Now let’s see how it works out in

practice. You’ll note in the pages that follow that each page has been divided into distinct paragraphs with space in between. The reason for this is to encourage you to pause and think a bit about what’s been said and how it might apply, rather than read to the end of a chapter without stopping. The ideas will make a lot more sense that way, and you’ll have time to compare them to your own experience. But don’t stop there. That’s just the “theory” part. Try it out on the slopes—I think you’ll find that you just can’t go back to the old way.

Good luck, and good skiing!

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FIRST BUDDHA

The Body

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Chapter One You Are Not Your Body

“I am not my body.” Try saying it to yourself a couple of times. Does it sound strange to you? It should. That’s because the culture we live in has convinced you that you ARE your body.

You check yourself out in the mirror and you say, “That’s me.” Which one of the following statements is not just a statement but sometimes actually defines an identity?

“I’m fat.” “I’m clumsy.” “I’m blonde.” “I’m handicapped.”

You are not your body. (Even though you’ve probably been led to believe you are.) Your body is actually just a way to get things done. It is not YOU. The real YOU is potentially a great skier but your body just hasn’t caught on yet—and because you’ve been led to believe you are your body, you end up believing you will never be a great skier. Hey, maybe not even a good skier. This prevents your body from catching on, which leads you to think you’re not a good skier, and on and on in a vicious circle.

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Just listen to the reasons you’re not a better skier: you’re gawky; you’re fearful; you’re bowlegged; you’re too uncoordinated; you started skiing too late in life; you lack strength or stamina; you’re a slow learner... The mind creates umpteen reasons for the body’s shortcomings, and because you ARE your body, you’re condemned to mediocrity because you can’t change what you are. The body’s physical nature seems to be “carved in stone.” It seems immutable. The greatest hindrance to good skiing is the mistaken idea that “well, this is the body I’ve been given, and it just isn’t up to the task.” And because of the false belief that you are your body, the inference is that you just aren’t up to the task.

You’re held back by your own belief system.

Two skiers were standing above a black-diamond run, with moguls rippling up the size of Volkswagens. One turned to the other. “There’s no way I’m going down this run; my knees can’t take it.” The two skiers had comparable knees but one raced down the slope in exhilaration and the other slunk off down the cat track in frustration. Sure the body has limitations. There are physical limitations and there are mental limitations. By far the most inhibiting are the mental limitations.

“My body won’t do it so I can’t.” “My body can’t do it so I won’t.”

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The truth is that the body can do it but it doesn’t have the chance. You’re holding it back. Skiing is an activity that depends on a moderate amount of coordination, balance, and flexibility. The average person has these things. Yet even people with above-average abilities sometimes say that they can’t ski or, having mastered the basics, can’t really improve.

The blind are skiing, the deaf are skiing, the limbless and the paraplegic are skiing, and skiing well. Yet your body is holding you back. You’re not your body! Its limitations are not your limitations, even though you think they are. Your belief allows “imperfections” to become “roadblocks.” If “I’m blind so I can’t ski” is no longer a reasonable defense, how can we expect to keep relying on minor dissatisfactions about coordination or flexibility? Your body is simply a way of getting things done. It’s a means to fulfill yourself as a person. If it serves as a source of frustration, a change in attitude is in order. There are no perfect bodies. Does your fulfillment have to be imperfect, too?

Not in the least.

Buddha was sitting beside the road, minding his own business, when a man came up to him begging water. “Why,” asked the Buddha, “don’t you use that gourd on your belt to draw water from the spring over there?” “But sir,” the man protested, “my gourd has a hole in it, and would drip

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profusely as I drank from it.” “It is imperfect, to be sure,” the sage answered, “but it is better to learn to use what you’ve got than to suffer from thirst so close to the spring.” But the man was stubborn, and went away cursing his misfortune. Buddha, now thirsty himself, went to the spring. Having not even a gourd with a hole in it, he dipped his cupped hand and drank.

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Chapter 2 Skiing Is a Body Activity If a body is just a way of getting things done, skiing— as one of the things wanting to get done—depends on the body. The body is the physical device that lets it happen.

Skiing is the body moving through space.

The body, balancing on the skis, chooses its path down the slope, pulled by gravity. Without the body, without the skis, without the slope, or without gravity, there wouldn’t be any skiing. Some people are out of touch with their bodies. They’re uncomfortablewith the sensations that impinge upon their consciousness, or they ignore them. Skiers need to be in close touch with their bodies. It doesn’t have to be a marriage made in heaven—very few are—but there does have to be a close working relationship.

As a skier you need to be able to read your body well for it to do more for you and you to do more for it. The eternal feedback loop that’s constantly in progress as you feel your way through life is especially important when you’re out on the slopes. You need to know everything your body is sensing—at all times—so that you can continuously make adjustments in its position.

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A good skier feels every nuance of the body’s sensations so it’s ready at a moment’s notice to change its configuration.

Good configuration is good skiing.

Configuration: body position, ski angle, degree of edge, weight distribution, plus the physical and mental flexibility to quickly change them.

Being in touch with your configuration is the result of a good marriage of body and mind.

Two skiers were on a chairlift, looking down at the carnival below them. “Look at that guy!” said one; “he looks like Frankenstein on skis.” “That’s nothing! Look at him! He looks like he’s divorced!” The marriage of body and mind gives you constant and accurate feedback of your body’s activities. When every nuance is felt, new instructions can be given in a fast and smooth flow.

How do you sense every nuance? 1. L ove your body. 2. Pay attention.

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Loving one’s body is sometimes hard while living in a culture that too often gets on its case—think a moment about dieting, junk food, Puritan shame— these are symptoms of a society uncomfortable with the body or simply not understanding it very well. How, then, are we supposed to love it? But a marriage without love is not really a marriage at all.

“Loving one’s body” is a conscious choice to overcome prejudice and be satisfied with what God and Darwin have given you. Loving one’s body is not narcissism but ACCEPTANCE. If you can accept your body—which is not YOU, remember—you are on the road to love. Love leads to marriage and marriage leads to good skiing. Pay attention to your body! Learn to listen to what it has to say. Not just obvious things like, “Are my knees bent?” and “Are my shoulders perpendicular to the fall line?” but subtle things like, “On what part of my feet is my weight?” or “Are my wrists supple and quick when making pole plants?” Only when you listen and make corrections can you improve your skiing. While skiing, someone else might love and pay attention to your body more than you do. If that’s your purpose out there—to be admired—then you’re not really a skier but a traveling exhibition. True, some people go to the slopes to exhibit, but showing off is a fleeting pleasure while good skiing is an experience that lingers not only in the memory but in the soul. Learn to accept your physical form and listen to all the subtle messages it sends you. Rather than feel limited by what your body can do, try to realize instead that the body is the thing that lets happen what you want to happen, and is limited only by how well you two understand each other.

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The Buddha was walking through the crowded marketplace of a town not unlike Sodom, where immorality of the body and the emptiness that often comes with it went hand in hand. A procurer approached through the throng and, attempting to draw him aside with a leering gaze said, “Stranger! Come with me and I’ll introduce you to a lovely creature who will teach you things about your body you never knew existed!” “But I already know such a person,” the mahatma replied; “it is me.”

Chapter 3 True Ski Techniques

Technique is just the way you position and move your body. Some ways are better than others but there’s no one right way. Take ski lessons but take them with a grain of salt. You’ll learn techniques, but only you will know if they’re right for you, and only if you’ve learned to accept your body and pay attention to what it’s telling you. The two technical rules of skiing (which your ski school may or may not teach) that everything else is built on: 1. Stay flexible. 2. Ski on one ski.

An intoxicated person often survives a terrible accident that wouldordinarily kill a sober person for one reason only: the intoxicated one isflexible. Flexibility is THAT STATE OF THE BODY/MIND WHERE ALL POSITIONING IS TEMPORARY. When a person is flexible, the body is constantly moving in response to the environment. Nothing stands still. Every muscle and every joint is able to flow over the topography fluidly rather than being jostled by every lump and fluff on the landscape.

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The best skiers look great carving their way down the slope, while poor skiers look more like the Tin Woodsman before the benefit of an oil can. Check it out from the chairlift. Flexibility means not only doing stretching exercises so that body parts can bend farther and more easily, but actually letting them bend, constantly, while you’re skiing. Flexibility means a state of mind that keeps the body in a continuous state of adjustment. At first, flexibility seems like work. But when it becomes a habit it’s forgotten, like driving a car. Skiing on one ski helps to maintain flexibility. The other ski, riding a hundredth of an inch above the hardpack, is ready to be weighted at a moment’s notice, unaffected by the pitch or texture of the ground. It’s where you want it to be, not where the ground puts it. Skiing on one ski lets the skis do all the work turning. Full weight on one ski creates reverse camber—that is, the centre of the ski is pushed into the snow—and the shape of the ski does the rest. The turn is carved, not skidded.

How can anyone balance on one ski? That’s like asking, “How can anyone walk on one foot?” We step on one foot only to get the other one ready. It’s the same on the slopes, except that the movement of the feet on skis is more subtle and fluid; it looks more like one continuous motion rather than stepping.

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Three skiers were sipping suds in the day lodge, arguing about the correct technique for skiing. “Weighting and unweighting, up and down, that’s the ticket,” said one eager schussmeister. “Yes, but keeping the skis parallel, boots touching, is the most important thing,” said another. “That’s all well and good,” said the third, holding his microbrew up to the light thoughtfully, “but I think moving, always moving, like a caterpillar, from one ski to the other is the key.” “You must be drunk!” his compadres chortled. “No,” he replied, “I just ski like I am.”

Part of flexibility includes using your poles liberally. Hands in front of you, wrists flicking without excessive arm movement—pole planting accomplishes more than meets the eye, if it’s an integral part of your sequence of movements and adjustments as you make your way down the slope. 1. I t helps establish rhythm. Use your poles the way an orchestra conductor uses his baton. 2. It helps you make your line down the slope. Where you plant, there you turn. 3. It helps you maintain your posture. Stand too tall and your plants are awkward and indefinite; bend too low and your poles will make you feel like a very short person. 4. It helps you balance. Your poles’ alternating and rhythmical touch to the snow acts like a gyroscope to keep that moving and adjusting machine (you) in line.

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5. It helps you overcome passivity. While beginning (or lazy) skiers slide their way down the mountain at the mercy of the terrain, pole- planters choose their way down. Be flexible, ski on one ski, and plant those poles as part of the package— that alone will keep you on top of things on most of the mountain. For the rest, additional techniques can be gotten from the learnèd mouth and steady hand of an instructor. Buddha was tending a garden near the banks of the Ganges one day when a woman came to him complaining of back pain. “You walk too stiffly,” he said; “it’s likely that some inner stiffness in your mind makes you move about in a mechanical way. Move every part of your body more when you walk; put more rhythm in your step; exaggerate your movements, and look for places to walk that call for even more exaggerated movement. Then your problem will be solved.” The woman was aghast. “Won’t people be startled to see me walk like that?” The sage looked at her compassionately. “Do you think you’re so pleasant to look at, the way you walk now?”

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Chapter Four Overcoming Fear There is nothing more fearsome than fear itself, but we’ll soon see how wrong that really is. The good news: fear can be an ally.

Rarely does a skier get through a day on the slopes without experiencing at least one moment of fear. Aside from the exhibitionist—the poseur who’s there to look good—all of us feel a moment of fear now and then. And that’s good.

Wait a minute. If fear is so good, why does it feel so bad?

To answer this, we first have to understand that there are (for our purposes) two kinds of fear: one is physical and one is mental. Body-based fear is good. Let’s look at the scenario: You’re suddenly faced with danger. Your subconscious mind in a nanosecond runs through all the possibilities for action and chooses from its storehouse of memories

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the one best equipped to meet the challenge. Adrenaline is secreted into the bloodstream to give the muscles extra punch. The heart beats faster to carry more oxygen-rich hemoglobin to the tissues. A fine-tuned machine stands poised, ready to spring.

This kind of fear is a gift from the gods. It’s manna from heaven for you on the slopes because it puts your mind and body at peak arousal, ready for almost superhuman accomplishment. That double-diamond chute you’re just not quite sure of? Let ‘er rip, because your mind and body are ready for it. They’ll never be readier. What throws a wrench into this well-oiled machine? You do. Or more accurately, your conscious mind does. Two skiers stood at the top of a wicked couloir, looking down. It pitched nearly straight down into the abyss, its rocky walls only five yards apart. Both skiers’ minds raced, their bodies pumped to the max for danger. The first skier’s conscious thought was, “Let’s do it!” and he shoved off with relish. The second skier’s conscious mind filled with images of danger: wiping out, colliding with the rocks, snapping bones, begging the ski patrol to shoot him to put him out of his misery... Stiffly, reluctantly, he shoved off. Soon, at the bottom of the pitch were two breathless skiers. One was beaming and triumphant, the other was a mess of snow and ice, sans hat, goggles, and poles. There’s no avoiding fear in tough situations. It’s a natural thing. And it’s good for you when your autonomic nervous system clicks into gear—

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which it does to save your hide but which you in your wisdom should use to gain maximum performance. Your hide is valuable and your mind knows it so it’ll do whatever’s necessary to protect it. The body is a beneficiary to countless mind-induced mechanisms, all adding up to heightened awareness, heightened capabilities. Your mind lays them at your feet. You just pick them up and use them.

It’s when you begin thinking about it that you turn gold into lead.

Fear is not the problem. It’s how you HANDLE fear that separates the Caesars rom the junior accounting clerks. This: increased adrenaline increased blood flow muscle readiness heightened awareness rush of energy will lead to this: shallow breathing sweaty palms clammy skin

goose bumps

dizziness

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and then to this: panic muscular stiffness loss of control feeling of paralysis because YOU let it. In the Second Buddha we’ll look at ways to prevent the onscious nindfrom turning a physiological ready-state into a circus of errors that’llsurely help your worst fears come true. The thing to remember for now isthat fear is a natural and desirable state, and it’ll enhance your skiingincredibly. If fear is so good, why does it feel so bad? Because you let it. It controls you, when you should be controlling it.

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Maybe control is not the best word for it. MANAGING IT fits a lot better. Buddha was sitting under a bo tree, contemplating the futility of too strong an attachment to the things of this world, when three bandits approached him with daggers drawn. They thought to frighten the stranger into giving up his purse, so they shouted and flailed their arms. The Buddha quietly withdrew from his contemplation and looked up. His heart was beating rapidly and his muscles grew tense but he knew that this gave him strength. When the bandits saw the strength and serenity in the man’s eyes, they became afraid and fled. He smiled to himself. Didn’t they know the enlightened one carried no purse?

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Chapter Five Your Body in the Company of Skiers

You’re not there to put yourself on display.

Why, then, are you self-conscious about the shape of your movements down the slope? Why do you think about your clothes? Why is a scratch across your ski tip like an open wound that you fear your ski buddies might rub salt into at any moment? Self-consciousness is a human trait. Lacking self-awareness is like being a catatonic sitting in the corner of a dark room, not knowing whether you exist or not. So don’t worry about THAT. Problems arise when we get a little too concerned about what we look like. Many of us would love to look like the classic Stein Erikson worming his way down the slope, and dress like him, too. Why is this a problem?Because he is he and you are you, and never the twain shall meet.

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Imitation is all too human an activity—it’s almost a form of recreation— but it has its point of diminishing returns. Not that limitation is always bad. Modeling, or conscious and focused imitation, which we’ll discuss in the Second Buddha, is a powerful tool for training. But imitation which grows out of self-consciousness with the way one looks is nothing but a hindrance.

Think about it this way. Imitation shows that you’re not satisfied with yourself, that you’d like to be more like that model schusser or shredhead over there. This existential angst is no fun, even in small doses. Wouldn’t itbe better to be full of joy and satisfaction along the journey toward better skiing than fighting off a gnawing feeling of inadequacy? Where does that feeling of inadequacy come from? Comparing yourself to others and coming up short. Yet the only people who don’t have to do that so much are Olympic gold medalists, and they aren’t immune to it, either. The rest of us are so far from ski perfection that it would seem natural for us to look at others and sometimes feel inadequate.

Don’t do it.

Don’t ever be ashamed of what you have, right now, because there’s so much potential there, unbelievable potential, not just for unlimited performance but peace of mind as well.

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A partial solution: work with what you have, rather than imaging what you don’t have (but might copy from someone else).

Four skiers were riding up a high-speed quad, observing the three-ring circus below them. “Check out that jacket,” said one; “I’m going to get one of those for sure.” She liked to shake a tail feather all the way down the blue runs. “Look at that guy’s form!” said another; “you couldn’t fit the ace of spades between his knees.” He was bowlegged and worshipped skiers whose lower bodies looked like a piston. “I wish I had the guts to go through the trees like that,” said the third. He was a city boy. “Today I’m going to work on my turns,” said the fourth. He was happy as a pup just to be out there. Three of the skiers took antacids after lunch and thought nothing of it. What is it that you think you can get from other skiers that you can’t get from yourself?

Make a list.

If your list contains two or three things, you feel mildly inadequate. If it has more than five things, you’re mildly delusional. More than ten and you’re probably a simpering idiot. In fact, there’s nothing you can get from other skiers that you can’t get fromyourself, except instruction.

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Instruction should always begin, “This is how I do it,” never “This is how it’s done.” Although we all share similarities (this is the basis of instruction), each of us has his or her own coordination level, bone structure, muscle strength, flexibility, reaction time, sensitivity, tolerance for ambiguity, determination, fear threshold, emotional temperament, and a slew of other factors that makes us unique as skiers. Imitation implies that we can just do like they do and get the same results. If we had identical bodies and minds, this might be true. BUT WE DON’T. Even hawks and eagles, so similar in their habits and patterns, have their own ways. We all need to become more aware of our own uniqueness, and work from that. How can we learn from others, then, without simply imitating them? By seeing their new and different movements—techniques—as suggestionsfor things we might adapt to our way. “That dude reaches downhill with his poles—touching the moguls—and he seems to have a good line and great balance: what can I do with my poles to improve my own mogul performance? Reaching? Snapping my wrists? Deeper plants? Let’s check it out.” Watching is how it all starts. Watching others shouldn’t just lead to imitation. It ought to open you up to a broader realization of the possibilities. Let the beginners imitate. Mature skiers are more able to teach themselves.

Buddha was leaning on his stick at a fork in the road. The left fork crossed the valleys, the right led through the mountains. Most of the travelers

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passing him turned to the left. “If I were a man newly embarked on this journey I would follow them and feel confident in their confidence,” he said to himself. “But I have traveled some in my time, and I believe the right fork will suit me better. I hear the wildflowers in the passes are beautiful this time of year.” So saying, he set out.

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Chapter Six

Your Place on the Slopes

Just what is your body doing out there? That’s kind of a philosophical question. We could even make a Zen koan—the difficult question that demands a simple answer—out of it: What is the sound of one skier on the slopes fulfilling himself?

From the body’s point of view, there are certain goals that need to be accomplished if the day is to be considered satisfying. And since your body is the one out there doing most of the work, satisfying it would not only be an act of kindness but almost a moral obligation. Here are some of the more pressing goals: 1. Y our body wants to get down the mountain economically (with the least effort possible). This takes KNOWLEDGE.

2. Your body wants to get down the mountain safely. This takes WISDOM. 3. Your body wants to be physically able to meet the challenge. This takes CONDITIONING. 4. Your body wants to have a good time. This takes a PLAYFUL ATTITUDE.

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You have to cultivate at least those things (knowledge, wisdom, conditioning, and playful attitude) if you expect to satisfy the long suffering workhorse who’s making it all possible for you.

Four skiers were hiking along the ridge to the cornice, skis on their shoulders. The first guy said, “With my practice jumping and skiing powder this year, I figure I’ll be down to the tree line before you know it, no sweat.” A woman added, “I know my limits, and I know I can do this run no sweat.” A third piped in, “I wouldn’t have made this climb at the beginning of the season, but now it’s no sweat.” The fourth finished with, “Let’s do a three-sixty off the cornice and figure-eights through the powder. It’ll be no sweat.” Little did the skiers know that they were teaching each other. (Footnote: all of them were perspiring but no one was sweating.) The KNOWLEDGEto get yourself down the slope with the least amount of energy is important in keeping your body happy. Skiers who skid their turns, edge through the moguls, or ride on their tails through the trees are going to work their bodies to death; then, when they need the extra ounce of energy or want to take one more turn, their bodies are going to balk. Wouldn’t you? Practice saving energy: try different techniques; watch other skiers; learn to feel the differences among your ways of getting down. Be

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aware of what you’re doing. Your body will thank you for it.

The WISDOM to know your limits may mean the difference between a season of exhilaration on the slopes or the winter of your discontent in the physical therapist’s office. Never go above 10% of your ability level at a time, and always for short stretches. Safety is the sine qua non of skiing. Remember that and your body will thank you for it. The CONDITIONING to be able to do what you want is important to your body because it is, after all, the poor creature doing most of the work. If you’re out of shape, your body will feel it and let you know it. Why compromise your enjoyment because you’re tired and sore? Get yourself into good condition and your body will thank you for it. The PLAYFUL ATTITUDE you bring to the slopes will go a long way in permitting your body to have a good time. After all, it loves the thrill of the jump, the exhilaration of speed, the challenge of the trees, but will be denied all of this if you’re not relaxed and ready to play. Loosen up and get silly a little and your body will thank you for it. Your body is not an independent agent. It needs you to work with it to give it ideas what to do. Left to its own devices, the body could presumably point the ski tips down the fall line and go, just to get it over with. That’s a ride you wouldn’t want to take. So work with your body. Help it out. When your body is comfortable with everything you throw at it, and you’re having a good time, you will have found your place on the slopes.

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Buddha was crossing the high mountains of the Kashmir when hecame upon a donkey train whose beasts of burden were lying exhausted alongthe side of the trail. The driver was exhorting them with a whip, to no avail. They would not move. Recognizing the Buddha, he fell to his knees. “If you truly are the enlightened one, won’t you please make my donkeys get up and continue the journey?” he asked. “Who you see before you is no one but a simple dharma bum,” the Buddha replied, “but I do know that not even the Creator of the world could go against his own handiwork by making the abused jump up from their exhaustion and return to their labor with joy. You have sown; and now, you must harvest.”

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SECOND BUDDHA

The Mind

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Chapter One You Are Not Your Mind

“I am not my mind.” Try saying it to yourself a couple of times. Does it sound strange to you? It should. That’s because the clever French philosopher Descartes said, “I think, therefore I am” and gave everyone the impression that ME and MY MIND are one and the same.

If you and your mind are the same, then every time you have a murderous thought, maybe we ought to put you on trial for your “crime.”

You are not your mind. This is important. If you were, then your mind’s moods or concepts like “lazy,” “fearful,” “incapable of learning,” “no athletic ability,” would be YOU, as in “I am lazy” or “I am incapable of learning.” And if you WERE learning and having fun doing it, would you suddenly say, “I’ve got to stop this because I am lazy”?

Your mind occasionally likes to play tricks on you.

Maybe your mind plays tricks on you because you don’t give it enough creative things to do and it gets bored with your routines and cooks up a little action sometimes to amuse itself.

Remember this: a mind with too much time on its hands can be a little brat sometimes.

Four locals were riding up to mogul heaven on a high-speed quad. Theskier on the end looked worried. “Hey guys, I don’t think I can do this run.It looks too hairy for me.” Someone called him a domestic fowl. “That’s

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right,” he thought; “I’m a chicken;” even though he didn’t have one feather. The second skier said, “I wish I could do the bumps better. But I’m probably too old.” The kid was pushing thirty, but his mind was already in the rocking chair. The third skier fluffed her hair back and said, “I’m really not up for the effort. I’m going to cat-track it back to the lodge for a hot cocoa.” She pulled her goggles back down over her eyes so no one could see her embarrassment. The fourth skier said, “Tips pointed down and go, guys; it’ll be a piece of cake.” All four skiers were miserable failures at the moguls. It wasn’t a case of mind over matter here but of mind’s tricks over matter, and matter can’t be overcome that way. You are not those concepts—fearful, too old, lazy, macho—”you” are YOU and “those concepts” are THOSE CONCEPTS. Most of “those concepts” are your mind telling you that you can’t do something. Oh, it’s got its reasons. Or it gets cocky and brags how much you CAN do. Like a street gang snowboarder, your arrogance can end up terrorizing everyone who comes near you. There are good snowboarders, even kind ones, but your mind isn’t one of them. It sometimes ends up breaking or tearing your body parts, or those you collide with. The way to beat your mind at its own game is to start telling IT what todo. Tell it what to do and then let it do its work.

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On the ski slope, its work is to learn, and then transform that learning into body movements that are smooth and cooperative. Movements that get you down the mountain with exhilaration. And in one piece. One big happy piece. That’s the goal of skiing: to get you down the hill all happy and smiling. But your mind sometimes thinks its goal is to avoid any challenge—or confront any challenge with bravado. Either way, the path ends up being wrong. You have to go to manual override and put your mind in its place. Its place: to be an instrument of tranquility and peace, so that learning can occur. It’s there to learn for you, not to tell you what you can or can’t do. When it learns for you, then you can turn it loose and it will guide your body effortlessly. You go to manual override to put it in its place and, once it’s firmly there, you turn it loose. It’s almost paradoxical. Paradox has a central place in the learning curve. In fact, all learning is paradoxical. You work more so that you can work less. The Buddha was fooling around outside the ashram, trying to get the residents to lighten up. “But Great Learned One, how can you make light of the serious business of enlightenment?” one of them asked. “That,”

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replied the itinerant sage, “is your mind playing tricks on you again. Whymust you be serious? Why must your effort be work? If you would simply set your mind on the path and let it work for you, you would have no need for ideas like ‘This is serious.’ You have serious work to do; let yourmind do it seriously; don’t YOU be serious.”

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Chapter Two Skiing Is a Mental Activity

A body is just a way of getting things done, but it needs guidance as to what it should do. Then you come along with an idea. “I think I’ll ski.” A partnership is formed. You get all your new ski gear on, set yourself at the top of the slope and say, “ski!” No, you have higher aspirations than that. “Ski well! Ski great!” To your chagrin, your commandment goes unheard. Your body embarrasses you the way it gropes its way down the hill. You rationalize. Having read this far, you say, “Of course all they will see is my body, and since I’m not my body, they won’t really see ME.” Nevertheless, YOU feel self-conscious. Your body doesn’t respond to commandments. It responds to training.

Your mind trains your body.

Your mind must learn before it can train anything.

Two dorks were skiing a new area for the first time. One turned to the other on the chairlift and said, “I’m bored. Let’s go ski The Chutes.” The other, all excited, asked, “Did you ever ski a chute before?” “Nope” was

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the reply. “Me neither. Let’s go for it.” Both dorks ended up regretting that they ever got out of bed that morning. The mind, consciously and unconsciously, controls everything the body does. The mind has to learn to guide the body.

People say the body can run on instinct. They fail to realize that instinct comes from the mind.

The education of the mind for skiing takes three forms: A. Watching. B. Imagining. C. Listening to the body while doing. Watching involves seeing every move your instructor (and every skierbetter than you) makes, and trying to internalize those images of smoothness, flexibility and quick reactions.

Imagining involves visualizing yourself in the same great form working your way down the mountain. In such perfect form that it’s not work at all.

Listening to the body involves being receptive to your body’s signals as you ski. Do you have good balance? Edge control? Are your pole plants effective? Read the signals and constantly refine.

The mind learns, then becomes the body’s tutor. Don’t expect the body to just “pick it up.”

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And don’t rely on luck. People aren’t always lucky. Sometimes they’re actually unlucky.

Physical therapists’ offices are filled with unlucky people.

The same two dorks, having gone through six weeks of physical therapy, were still determined to master The Chutes. This time, they skied the steeps religiously, keeping to a narrow track and getting used to short radius jump-turns. They watched Warren Miller videos at night and chute runners the next day from the top of the run. That afternoon, the two dorks flung themselves down The Chutes once more. They made it without a single face-plant or “yard sale.” They didn’t feel like dorks anymore.

Who wants to spend so much time educating the mind and training the body? Why not just get out there and have fun? Here’s the deal: the more you learn, the more the body can be trained—and the more fun you have.

Remember: you work more so that you can work less.

And for some fortunate individuals, as we’ll see later, work is play.

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The Buddha was combing the high mountain passes for sweet berries when he had the bad luck to run into a hungry bear. His first thought was to run, to let his body take over and run for its life. It was all too willing to do so. But the wise Buddha turned to his mind instead. There the following information was replayed in a flash: “If it is a bear of the grizzly family, humped in its back, I shall climb a tree, for such bears are not nimble and dislike climbing; if it is of the brown or black bear family, round of back, I shall first repel its charge and, failing at that, lie down and play dead.” Using his mind to control his body, the calm and compassionate one took the appropriate course of action and lived to see another day. And he was able to keep his berries in the bargain.

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Chapter Three True Ski Techniques

Technique is just the way you position and move your body. Some ways are better than others but there’s no one right way.

Your mind tells your body what to do, so technique comes from the mind.

But: each individual’s body is different, so no matter what technique your mind learns, your body is going to put its stamp on it.

Two gutsy but untrained skiers were traversing a ridge, looking for the least hazardous way down the steep slope. “This looks good,” said one confidently. “No way,” replied the other; “it’s too steep for either of us.” “You might be right,” continued the first, “but I intend to do it. Just follow me. Let your body take over.” “What makes you think our instincts are that good?” the second skier asked, looking down into the abyss. “Trust them,” the first skier said. And with that she pointed her skis to the fall line and pushed off. The second skier gulped and followed. Near the bottom of the cliff, among the rocks, the two skiers lay collapsed in a heap, exhausted. One of them, the second skier, clutched a broken collarbone. The other was lucky. But her luck wouldn’t hold out forever. Somehow, the mind must be taught. THEN the body will respond.

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The education of the mind takes three forms: A. Watching. B. Imagining. C. Listening to the body while doing.

WATCHING is really a technique known to behavioral psychologists as “modeling.” By watching experts ski, the mind is actually being trained to approximate those movements. Watching can take a couple of different forms. One is going out on the slopes and checking the movements of your instructor (or other accomplished skiers). By watching your instructor and following him or her down the hill, you’re training your mind and body in tandem. Training in tandem means that while your mind is observing the movements and internalizing them—letting them make an indelible imprint on the brain—your body is then trying to duplicate that imprint in actual practice.

Training in tandem can sometimes be frustrating because your body is expected to duplicate that imprint of your instructor’s form after you’ve seen it only a few times. “Watch me—follow me” is one of the most difficult forms of learning there is.

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Frustration with tandem learning leads many skiers to constantly seek out new instructors—hoping to find someone who’ll be able to make that frustration disappear. There ain’t no such animal. You’ll have to be patient. Another way of watching involves observing an expert make a run over and over again. Ski training videos are an ideal way to do this. Physiological tests show that muscular learning is actually taking place as you watch expert movements repeated many times. This “neuromuscular training” leaves a strong imprint on the mind and body, and the body is much more able to respond later out on the mountain. Taking ski lessons without having first made this preparation makes them much less effective. IMAGINING. The second form of mind education is imagining. This is called visualization and it’s used in all sports today. Visualization has two parts: first, you see yourself from a distance, skiing effortlessly down the slope. Repeated often enough, you’ll begin to see yourself duplicate the perfect form of your instructor or Olympic hero on video. Second, you put yourself into that form; imagine YOU are the skier skiing the mountain in that perfect form.

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Repeat, again and again and again and again.

Only when you’ve repeated the watching and imagining—watching gives you an image and imagining lets you recreate the image in your mind—are you really ready to get out there, point your skis and go. LISTENING. This brings into play the third form of your ski education: listening to the body while skiing. In technical terms, as you ski you analyze feedback from your body and refine it. You may have watched someone’sperfect form and visualized it a thousand times, but your body is unique and now you’ve got to adapt that image to your own physical form. Now that your mind is trained, it’s much better equipped to train your body. It can be a teacher now. You’ll find your body a more willing student.And now you can make refinements based on your body’s response to those commands. This is true ski technique.

The Buddha once taught a young girl from the seaside how to read. Now she is teaching herself more and more words through increasingly difficult books, and those books are taking her on an exciting journey far removed from the repetitive days of learning the alphabet.

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Chapter Four Overcoming Fear We’ve seen from the First Buddha that there are two kinds of fear, and that one is good and one is bad.

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Refresher lesson: the two kinds of fear. 1. Unconscious or “body” fear. 2. Conscious or “mind” fear. Second refresher lesson: symptoms of the two kinds of fear. 1. Body fear—increased adrenaline, increased blood flow, muscle readiness, heightened awareness, rush of energy. 2. Mind fear—shallow breathing, sweating palms, goose bumps, panic, muscular stiffness, feeling of paralysis.

Body fear turns into mind fear because you let it.

Try to understand this process: Standing at the top of a wild and woolly slope, you check out the terrain. Your mind becomes aware of the danger, so the autonomic nervous system kicks in to help protect you—faster heartbeat, muscle readiness, etc. This is natural and desirable. But these intense body sensations cause images to pop up in your conscious mind. Images of loss of control, of crashing. Now your mind becomes a disaster area and loses its ability to smoothly coordinate your body’s movement down the hill. You tense up. You become afraid. Question: how can you let your body become ready without your mind coming in and crashing the party?

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A skier was sound asleep in front of the lodge fire, dreaming about skiing. He was riding the chairlift up to a black-diamond run that was covered in icy crud. The reason for such stupidity? A rival had said he didn’t have the guts to ski it. He got off the lift, the only person on the mountain, and skated over to the top of the run. He stared down its gaping jaws and was overcome by horror. The longer he stared, the more frightened he became. He looked until he couldn’t move. “This is just a dream,” he thought desperately; “I’ve got to wake up!” Yes, he did have to wake up. And that was true in more ways than one. There are two keys to overcoming fear. The first is this: don’t take time to think. Your body will click into fear mode instantaneously—that’s what sometimes saves lives—but the mind is a step and a half behind. It takes a little time to build up a good case of fear.

Don’t give it the time!

Here’s a revolutionary statement but really it’s pure conservatism because it just may save your hide: point your ski tips and go! We criticized the two gutsy skiers in the last chapter for doing just that, but here the case is different. You’ve digested that chapter on technique and have trained your mind and body diligently.

You have two powerful things going for you now as you stand at the edge of that freefall. All of the experience of your training (watching,

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imagining, listening to your body while you’ve practiced) is tucked in there somewhere, ready to be recalled automatically as your brain clicks into overdrive when you aim your skis and go; and you have an aroused physiology that has primed every muscle in readiness for the challenge to come.

All you have to do now is get out of the way so it can all happen.

Don’t stand there and gawk down the beast’s savage maw or you’ll sabotage all the intricate mechanisms that are at your beck and call to get you to the bottom. When you go to the edge of the slope, scan it, pick your fall line and go.

Nothing more, nothing less will do. The second key to overcoming fear is to learn to be comfortable with this state of physiological readiness we’ve called “body” fear. Learning to be comfortable with something fearsome is best accomplished by regularly exposing yourself to it. This means challenging yourself on a regular basis with small doses of hairy terrain. No huge bites, please.

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Consistent exposure will build up a tolerance, and in due time all that heart-thumping and the adrenaline rush will be as comfortable as those old ski boots you just can’t bear to part with. Buddha was traveling across the dry lands when he came upon a crowd of shouting people gathered around a well in a small oasis. A child had fallen in and everyone was arguing about how to get her out. The penniless sage stepped in and asked, “Is there anyone here who has done this before?” The crowd silenced and a man stepped forward. “I have. Foot by foot I’ve gone down to get water these weeks when the level has dropped because of the drought. But I’m afraid it’s too far down now.” “Just go do it,” said the wise one, “without a moment’s thought.” The man did, and to everyone’s relief, the child was saved.

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Chapter Five Your Mind in the Company of Skiers

It’s a jungle out there on the slopes.

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You have little to fear from the mountain, because now you’re prepared for it. What you might not be prepared for are the minds of the other skiers, and their influence on your own mind.

That’s the jungle.

What are the entanglements of the ski jungle? Let’s list just some of the snares—in you and from others—that may be waiting for you out there on the pure white crystalline snow under an azure sky: 1. Imitation 2. Envy 3. Dares 4. Teasing 5. Egotism 6. Desire 7. Miscellaneous stray thoughts

Seven skiers were waiting in a lift line, their minds wandering in fits and starts like sparrows. One was remembering the lock-kneed grace of his buddy and deciding to ski just like him. Two was looking at a Nordic god in a Descente jumpsuit and thinking, “I wish I could be like him instead of like me.” Three was nervous as hell because he’d been conned into agreeing to telemark a heavy bump run on a dare. Four was wilting because hergirlfriend teased her about her meager posterior. Five was determined to

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show these idiots what great skiing looked like. Six wished his shoulders were just a little wider and his form a little more commanding. Seven was a fresh intermediate and had no idea of what to make of all the supposedly helpful but actually confusing remarks everyone was making to her. IMITATION: don’t do it. Imitation is different from watching, in that watching is taking in the image of great form so that subconscious learning can occur, while imitation is simply copying and has its roots in a person’s sense of inadequacy. You’re different, so you can’t imitate. ENVY: why should you covet what someone else has? And believe me, out there on the slopes some people will show you what they’ve got, and show you and show you. Your cup may only be half full, but at least you’ve got that. Build on what you have. DARES: don’t you dare. The unspoken ones, the subtle ones, are the most dangerous. They play on the weakness of your desire to please and to belong; they encourage showing off and possible injury. The good side: they can motivate you. Do you need this kind of motivation? TEASING: not only bad skiers and those with economy equipment run the risk of being teased. Everyone is fair game. The only sure prevention is being perfect, and who is? So the best possible alternative is to develop the “teflon technique”—let nothing stick to you. It may still hit you, but let it slide right off. EGOTISM: try to remember that you’re not all that great. If you can learn to

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just be yourself without trying to prove anything, your mind will relax more and your skiing will get even better. DESIRE: don’t get conned by TV. Sex and skiing don’t mix, although in some people’s minds they are one and the same. Skiing becomes just another vehicle for snagging a partner or keeping one interested.Nothing kills the joy of an activity like using it to accomplish something else. MISCELLANEOUS STRAY THOUGHTS: you’re never completely free of society, even on the slopes. Other minds, through word or deed, will impinge on your own and get its wheels turning. Learn to focus on the adventure at hand, without interference from those around you.

Your mind can make your day or ruin it, depending on what you let it do and what you let the minds of others do.

The ideal mind on the slopes is free of thoughts. One’s entire being is immersed in the moment. That sense of freedom and timelessness is what ecstasy is all about. Skiing is an ecstatic sport. Only an empty mind, full only of the sensations of the moment, can realize ecstasy. Buddha was sitting by a brook descending from a cleft rock when a young woman came to him to ask his advice about how to pray. “The problem is,” she explained, “just when I think I have a clear path to God,

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thoughts of what other people might think of me begin to fill my head. I wonder if my neighbors think me sanctimonious or self-righteous. Or I wonder if they secretly scorn me because I’m so fervent in my desire. Soon I lose concentration and my prayer evaporates into thin air. What can I do?” The sage looked at her tenderly. “Others are doing nothing,” he replied, “except being themselves. It is YOU who permits uninvited guests to remain in your mind. It is you who must ask them to leave. Whether it takes a day or a year, it is still up to you.”

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Chapter Six Your Place on the Slopes

Just what is your mind doing out there? What is its purpose? Why even have it tell your body to put on those tight boots and step into those big popsicle sticks?

Life is a wondrous carnival and skiing is one of the better rides. It’s healthy,

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it’s exhilarating, it’s fun. Done correctly, it creates an altered state of consciousness where mind and body become one with their surroundings and time stands still. “Done correctly” isn’t just form or technique. Skiing correctly means having a body so well trained that the mind becomes free to experience the pure pleasure of movement. The ugliest skier can be bopping down the mountain in pure ecstasy while the Olympic bronze medalist frets and agonizes over a hundred troubling thoughts. Unless the mind is free, there can be no ecstasy. Nor even fun, which is a lesser category of experience but still a kick. Anyway, most of us just hope to have fun. But we can’t even have that if our minds are heavy with envy, frustration, self-consciousness, and stray desires weighing down our thinking.

Ideally, we shouldn’t even be thinking.

We should simply be experiencing.

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A laid-back skier was riding up a high-speed quad with three rad snowboarders when one of them lit up a joint, passed it around, and offered it to him. “Go for it,” the shredder said with held breath; “it’ll smooth out your head.” “No thanks,” was his calm reply; “my head’s already smooth.” They thought he was just another straight but, in fact, the space in his head was far more curved than theirs. Skiing is one of the better rides in life because it’s nearly limitless in what it offers: training if we want training; self-discipline if we want self-discipline; fun, if we want fun; invigoration, if we want invigoration; a way to bond with others, if we want to bond with others; solitude, if we want solitude; ecstasy, if we want ecstasy.

Whatever the mind desires from skiing, it can have. The only requirements are quietude and the willingness to train the body properly.

Most people’s purposes for skiing are manifold: to get fresh air and exercise, mess around with friends or lovers, and have some fun. It can all happen, although too often the experience is marred by what goes on inside the person’s head. A disquietude appears. What stands between you and a perfect day skiing is not the weather, nor is it the snow conditions or the crowds. It’s the noise within. The same noise that haunts us in the city with all its diversions and irritations too often follows us up to the slopes, so that skiing becomes just another form of entangling mental activity rather than the pure, thoughtless, animal activity it was meant to be. We come to the ski area loaded with baggage.

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We come with fourteen suitcases, eight pieces of carry-on luggage and an armload of overnight bags, and we’re carrying them all. Inside our heads. How can we find our place on the slopes when we’re loaded down with all this mental baggage? We can’t. What does it take to become free? How can we make ourselvesstore our worrisome thoughts in the ski lockers down at the lodge—so that we can be free of their burden out on the runs?

It’s all in the attitude. One has to cultivate an attitude of mental freedom and clarity in order to find one’s place on the slopes. You have to learn to become empty in order to experience the fullness of skiing.

A body well-trained works automatically and the skier is able to ski instinctively. The quiet mind then can revel in the free play of the instincts on the slopes. When you let stray thoughts enter your mind and dwell there, your instinctual self does a hockey stop and you might as well be back in the city on your Stairmaster, your mind heavy with the day’s concerns.

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Gautama was a prince who had every imaginable possession and pleasure, but his mind was so full of conflicting and troubling thoughts that he was unable to find peace and the true richness of life. So he left his home and princely life and wandered in search of contentment. Unable to find a teacher of the Great Way, he sat under a bo tree and let his thoughts come and go as they pleased. He marveled at how many there were, and how they teased him with their intensity and persistence. But soon he became determined to be free of their power. He would let them play, but he would not let them affect him. He would not let himself become attached to them. He practiced this self-discipline for long years under the bo tree. Then one day, he realized his mind was free of those thoughts, simply because he had let them go. And from that day onward, he was no longer Gautama the prince, but had become the Buddha.

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THIRD BUDDHA The Spirit

The Spirit

Chapter One You Are Not Your Spirit

“I am not my spirit.” Try saying it to yourself a couple of times. Does it sound strange to you? It should. That’s because we live in a paradoxical culture where we’re more or less convinced we’ve got a soul—most of us, anyway—yet the whole focus of our society seems to be on the mind and the body, and particularly the body.

If you and your spirit were one, why would so much of our national consciousness be fixated on your body, its shape, its endowments, even its “complexion”? If you were your spirit, why would our culture be so sports-oriented? 66

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It’s easy to get confused.

You may have been taught that your SPIRIT is the real you, the eternal you that lives on even after the body and mind call it a day. You may also have been taught that your MIND, the thing that thinks, is really you. If it’s not, who’s in there doing the thinking?

And you’re even taught that your BODY is the real you. When you look in the mirror, you say, “That’s me.” When people say, “He’s fat,” “She’s cute,” “He’s a great sprinter,” you might be thinking, “Hey, they’re talking about me.” So we can’t say that you are your spirit alone. There’s too much else going on.

Anyway, whoever heard of a spirit skiing?

Three ski bums were hitting on a well-oiled woman in the lodge après-ski. Strawberry daiquiri in hand, she sized them up. “Hey,” said the first, flexing his pecs; “I’ll take you to the top tomorrow. Steep and deep. It’s like climax city all the way down.” The second stepped in. “How about this? We’ll catch brunch at Rendezvous, ski a few blue runs, chat our way up the Peak 7 chair to the top, then imagine the sweet strains of Beethoven’s

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Pastorale as we gaze out over the myriad peaks of our little heaven.” The third, not to be outdone, chimed in. “Imagine this. Two souls bared before the white Creation, flying like wingless birds through soundless tracks of sky, tuned to the cosmic vibration like the Ancient Ones, soaring, soaring, ever higher.” She put her empty glass down. “God, what a bunch of idiots,” she said as she left. She had never met guys with such one-track minds before, each in his own way. They must be hell to ski with.

Body, mind, and spirit are the Three Buddhas, and no one is complete without all three. You are not your spirit. Your spirit wouldn’t even know what to do with a pair of skis. You are not your mind. If you were, you could absorb every word on these pages and still not have anything to ski with. Wouldn’t that be frustrating? You are not your body. If you were, you’d be a big, dumb beast who probably wouldn’t know how to tie its own shoes. If you were even smart enough to wear shoes.

Let’s face it. Without the Three Buddhas, you’re not getting the most out of skiing. One is not enough. Two are not enough. The Buddha most often left out is the spirit.

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Historically, sports have always been considered part of “physical” culture: the body. The late twentieth century saw the addition of the mind to the equation. The latest wave of research has substantiated the importance of the mind/body connection: how mental techniques increase physical performance. The third part of the equation, the spirit, is left out. We live in an age where spirit is “something we all have inside us,” but it’s not a living part of our daily existence. We say nothing is sacred nowadays. This means that appreciation of the spiritual dimension of life has just about faded away.

Why do indigenous people say, “These mountains are sacred” and we don’t see it? More likely we see real estate or a cool place to mountain-bike. We live in a world of things. But a skier on a mountain is not a thing. Buddha was sitting in a scented garden pondering the vastness of life and the narrowness of our thoughts about it, when a great quake shook the ground. A gardener tending with a rake ran over to him in fright. “Help me, Master; the gods are angry and I’m afraid I’ll die.” The compassionate

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one touched the man’s shoulder. “Don’t fear death, simply because your body feels disoriented and your mind grows afraid. Don’t forget that your spirit is with you and can’t be harmed by gods or men. And even when your body can no longer carry the weight of this world on its shoulders, your spirit will be untouched and unchanged.” The man wept, ashamed before the Buddha that he had forgotten his own divine nature; but his faith was weak, and that night he tossed and turned in his sleep and woke up many times afraid.

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Chapter Two Skiing is a Spiritual Activity

This one will be hard to prove, because there is no proof.

“Wow! That double-diamond chute was fun!” “Prove it.” How can you? It’s just something you know.

If you haven’t experienced it, you can’t know it.

Skiing is one of those activities in which you can experience a strong connection to a world beyond and much greater than the one we see every day. Eating pizza can’t, nor can doing your taxes or playing touch football. Skiing puts you in a supranatural environment of incredible beauty, and its physical demands can create in the mind a flood of hormonal chemicals that alter one’s normal working consciousness.

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To some people this sudden awareness of great beauty and vast rush of neurochemicals is “fun.”

To others, it opens the doors to a sharper perception of life and one’s sense of place in it.

We know that skiing, like sky-diving, marathon running or meditation, can cause an altered state of consciousness. But in keeping with our non-sacred culture, we trivialize this, referring to it simply as a “buzz” or “the runner’s high.”

There is more to being “high” than just having fun.

It’s all in the interpretation.

Imagine someone asking Buddha why he sat for so many years under the bo tree and he answering, “I got off on getting high.”

As if the high were the goal, rather than the new worlds the high could take you to.

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In skiing—as with anything else—we haven’t quite realized that yet. It’s fun to be high, but it’s a lot more fun to be even more than just high.

Not having experienced it yet, we don’t know what were missing.

Sixteen skiers from Detroit were on a package tour to the Rockies and were flying high on the peak experience. Every evening the lodge was filled with their stories of thrill and bravado, and every night they went to bed sedated with alcohol so their dreams might not be too wild or unmanage-able. One day on a sheet of glare ice at sixty miles an hour one of themhad a flash of her existence passing before her, yet it wasn’t fear of death but a panorama of life. She ended up in a snowy heap at the tree line, strangely calm, strangely touched. That night, she didn’t join in the revelry, as it seemed like just so much noise. The next day, she skied with a different mind. “The runner’s high,” “the thrill of speed,” “being swept away by

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passion”—can lead you to who you are, or can help you forget. Skiing—its excitement, its acceleration, its intense colors, its dangers,its sexiness—is a cult among those who ski to forget. (For some, thesensation blots out the pain of the world, or the pain of who they are inthe world.) The cult of skiing is a celebration of the body and its ability to overwhelm the mind and spirit with its pleasures. An orgy of the First Buddha while the other two cry in the corner. The deeper joy of skiing is to have all three Buddhas up and dancing. That way, you’ll have your “fun,” you’ll, have your “satisfaction,” and you’ll have your “inner peace.” Skiing is a spiritual activity, but only for those who allow themselves to experience it. It can lead one to a stronger and more complete sense of the world and who one is in that world. That’s the magic of skiing that makes “fun” pale in comparison.

And the great part about it is that you still have fun.

Buddha was crossing the lowlands when he came across a group of boys taunting some swans in a pond. The eldest boy was the ringleader. “Toss a stone and see how close you can come without hitting one.” He cast the first stone. The little Brahmins followed suit and the white birds were hard rained on. “Boys,” the Buddha said; “don’t you know that you and the swans are of the same spirit, and that if you hurt one of them, you

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hurt a part of yourself?” The poor little rich boys mocked him. “Look at his clothes,” said one; “he must be an untouchable, and we don’t need to listen to him.” Another piped in. “We have nothing in common with him, so how can he claim we have something in common with the swans?” “Go away, old man”, said the eldest, “before I call my father and have you whipped.” The Buddha was filled with compassion. “I was a boy once, too. I thought like you did. I couldn’t see the spirit in anything. But now I’m a man, and my experience has caused me to put away such thoughts. I long for the day when you will do the same.” So saying, he gave them some figs from the nearby mountains and set out on his way.

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Chapter Three True Ski Techniques Technique is just the way you position and move your body. Some ways are better than others but there’s no one right way. By the same token, there’s no correct path to understanding the spiritual side of life.

Some find it through meditation; some by walking through the woods. Some seem to be born with it; others dabble in drugs and incantations. Some do

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charitable work. Many pray. Others see the flash after a bad accident, or impending death. A few even wake up in the middle of the night laughing, or crying. Some just never do seem to get it.

There are many doors to that side of life, all invisible. Many people say, “What doors? I don’t see any doors.”

A skier is a person who has the door thrust in his or her face, and is able to decide whether or not to turn the knob.

A skier is one of a lucky few whose hobby induces the mind to be receptive to the call of the wider world. Skiing can obliterate even a hell on earth and replace it with heaven, if only for a short time. But that awareness of heaven lingers forever.

Standing on the mountain, the warm sun beating on your face or windblown snow pellets pelting it, your mind and heart are in a different place than back on flat land, sitting in the office or out on business calls.

That place is the door.

Flying down steep hardpack, skis carving exquisite arcs as they accelerate madly, your mind and heart are in a different place than back in the city, with bills to pay and mouths to feed, even your own. That place isthe door.

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Snaking valiantly down a bump run, every fibre of your being concentrating on your goal—which is not to conquer your environment but melt into it, become its friend and it yours—you’re not your usual self. You’re different, more aware, more alive. This is a door, too. Sometimes just understanding that the door is there is enough to open it. Each experiences the spirit in his or her own way, but this is common to all: a sense of being part of creation, an indispensable part, and the feeling of peace that this brings. The paradox: the intense feeling of excitement skiing brings can lead to a deep sense of peace. And that they can exist simultaneously.

Four skiers, none of them the sensitive type, were trudging up a chairless peak to get in a run of fresh powder. They had all just read the same Zen guidebook, and were looking for enlightenment. At the top, they clicked into their bindings and put the pedal to the metal. One prayed his way down. One swayed to music from his i-Pod. One imagined she was flying on a magic carpet, her skis invisible under the powder. The last chanted the sacred word “Om” all the way down. In the meadow below, they encountered a Zen master who was cross-country skiing. In the ensuing conversation they told him that not one of them had experienced

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enlightenment. But when the master asked them if they experienced something deeply personal and special and they replied in the affirmative, he laughed and said, “Each of you was doing ‘walking meditation.’ Just string together similar experiences over time and you just may have your enlightenment!” Sometimes we don’t need to clear the mind while skiing because the skiing itself clears it. Challenging runs demand such concentration that the mind is compelled to settle itself just to be able to handle the difficulty. Often hours of meditation can’t compete with one demanding ski trail. The question is: now that you’re tuned in, now that you’re focused, what do you do with it? Do you simply have “fun,” or do you leave yourself open to something more than fun? Once the mind’s been purified of the dross simply to be able to get itself down the mountain, it’s in an optimum state to take in the rare beauty of Creation, and it’s ready to start fitting you into that Creation. You yourself become a thing of rare beauty. And you’re no “thing.” The education of the mind about the spirit takes three forms: A. Watching. B. Imagining C. Listening to the body while doing.

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These are the same forms we encountered in the Second Buddha.

WATCHING involves being perceptive to the world around you, its sensations, its beauty. IMAGINING involves visualizing yourself as a spiritual being in this living landscape. LISTENING to the body involves becoming so aware of its interaction with the terrain that the distinction blurs and the two become one. Buddha was crossing a lake in a small boat in the late afternoon sun but there was no Buddha, no lake, and no sun. There was only a clear mind blending all into one.

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Chapter Four Overcoming Fear

Fear of one’s own spiritual nature is far different than the fear of too much speed or doing a face plant on a steep field of moguls. For some, it’s fear of the unknown. The scientist in all of us feels uncomfortable with unpredictable outcomes. And then there is the fear of being so “high” and yet not seeing anything. Call it the fear of failure.

And we can’t forget the fear of ridicule—the way other people might laugh at us for even entertaining the idea that skiing might have some higher dimension to it than just having a good time. Last but certainly not least, there’s something we might call “existential” fear: the queasy, unpleasant feeling we can get that maybe, just maybe, there’s nothing out there at all. This last fear is the worst, because giving in to it for even an instant creates a self-fulfilling prophesy—believe it’s not there and you will never be able to see it.

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Fear is behind much of human mishap and failure, and it’s no different on the ski slopes. Fear of the naked cosmos is one of the most difficult to overcome because we’re dealing with an x quantity. With good training we can be fairly certain we won’t take a bad fall (even though this is wishful thinking), and so we can usually overcome physical and mental fear—but inspiritual matters the way is a little fuzzier. Even after long training the fear can linger.

After a lifetime of prayer and meditation, St. John of the Cross was still sometimes filled with fear and doubt. The “dark night of the soul.” But some skiers, all star-spangled in new equipment and the best clothes, having mastered run after run all day and feeling exhilarated by it, think they’re immune to it. Never underestimate the human mind. It may come down heavy on fear but it’s always ready to snuggle right up with it. Confidence and knowing what you’re looking for—that’s the only way to beat this kind of fear.

Two speedsters were barreling down an express run a mile a minute when one turned to the other and said, “Do you see God?” “What do you mean, do I see God?” the other replied; “I AM God.” True confidence comes from having an intense image in your mind and knowing the power of the mind to have that image produce results.

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But one can’t keep an image in mind without having some idea about what that image should be.

You could follow the lead of existential literature and have an image of a cold and empty cosmos, with you an incidental speck in the vastness. With this picture in mind, forget ever being able to achieve true peace of mind while skiing. If the cosmos is so inhospitable, and skiing brings you right to the brink of it, how can you hope to relax? How can you feel part of anything?

Fear will enhance such unkind (and inaccurate) images in your head, or work to weaken the positive ones you might have. In a sense, it’s a battle of wills. Fear wants its way, you want yours. Who is stronger? Let’s hope that you are. Every time the beast rears its head on the slopes, you counter with a strong positive image. The stronger the fear, the stronger your image. Go to extremes if you have to. You’re not seeking God, you ARE God, if that’s what it takes. In order to do this you need to believe two things (or at least accept them as possibilities): that you’re a part of a wonderful and spiritual reality, and that the beauty and intensity of skiing (and the seeking nature of your mind) can make this realization possible.

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Possible, not probable. The probable part is up to you.

If you don’t believe it, you reduce its chances of ever happening.

If you don’t accept that it’s possible—which is a potent but lesser category than believing—you reduce its chances of happening.

In other words, it takes faith. Faith overcomes fear. It sets the stage for things to happen that don’t happen under ordinary conditions.

But we live in a faithless age.

The Buddha was wandering far and wide, teaching “non-attachment to things of this world” to those who would listen. He came upon a skeptic who questioned him severely. “What do we have in life, if not the things of this world?” the man asked. The sage replied, “Letting the mind enter the other world, beyond the senses, offers the only true peace.” “What other world? What is there but what I can see with my own eyes?” “Yes, we are blind to it, and so grow too fond of the everyday world around us. But were we to have a third eye, a more penetrating one, we would see even more.” The man shook his head in disbelief and walked away. The Buddha didn’t call him back. He knew that words are poor vehicles for that which we cannot see, and that if a person truly has a yearning in his heart for peace,

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someday he would see.

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Chapter Five Your Spirit in the Company of Skiers

Skiers are noisy.

Beginners squeal; snowboarders shout; kids scream; groups guffaw. It’s a noisy world out there.

But more than that. There are noisy minds. People cut you off. They laugh from the chairlift when you face-plant. They squeeze in front of you in the lift line. They swear up a storm. They build lunchtime fortresses around themselves with their hats and gloves and goggles in the restaurant. They knock your poles from the rack and leave them lying on the ground. When you pause for a breath on the slope, they use you as a gate and spray you with snow. They stop in groups and block the run. They weave noisy webs of bravado in the day lodge. They wear new ski clothes like a badge, they’re so proud of the labels—

All of this can happen. You may have seen it happen, and more.

People are a noisy bunch, and somehow you’ve got to turn off that noise. How can you expect to be peaceful and centered within yourself when your head gets filled with the riotous products of uncentered minds?

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You can’t. The noise may be intimidating. Or it may be seductive—it can lead you to become noisy yourself. The noise of an unsettled mind, going around unsettling other minds. The noise isn’t only the sound, but the unsettling actions of other skiers. You not only hear it, you see it. And then you feel it. It can knock you out of your equilibrium so fast that you start seeing skiing as a “competitive physical activity.” (Many people do.) You lose your spirit. That’s bad. Two idiots were putting on an exhibition all over the mountain, “scoping out the babes” and bludgeoning their way down every slope. They caused three beginners to fall and had a good laugh over some poor sucker who crossed his tips on a mogul run and slid fifty yards on his chin. They were college men but the spirit of learning wasn’t with them. Maybe becausethey were idiots, they were overcompensating. Later, in the mountainside tavern they thoroughly impressed two women with their tales, and there was

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a hot time in the lodge that night. But the next morning when they got up and looked in the mirror, nothing had changed. They were still idiots. Tuning out is no easy matter. There are more than idiots and boors in the world. There are a lot of people just like you and me who are having a bad day. We all contribute to the noise. But tune out we must, if we’re ever to have peace of mind. There’s a paradox here (they’re all over the place). We don’t tune out the static in order to shut out other skiers, but to letthem in. When your mind is unsettled and your spiritual center is lost, what possible relationship can you have with others? Only the most superficial kind. “He’s a good skier.” “She’s cool.” “He makes me mad.” “Stay out of my way.” The whole point of understanding the spiritual dimension of skiing is to put yourself in closer touch with your own self, other people, and the beautiful environment you share. If your mind is disturbed, don’t expect that to happen.

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You may even end up being one of the noisy ones, disturbing others’ equilibrium and turning skiing into the quasi-contest it has unfortunately become for so many. If you have a peaceful heart and soul, you’ll spread some of that peace to others. If you’re on the edge, literally and figuratively, don’t expect “vibrations of love and contentment” to radiate from you. In the dimension of the spirit, all things are joined. Another skier may be ten feet away, but a look, a sound, or an action will join you at the hip. That marriage, however brief, can’t be satisfying if you’re not at peace.

But peace is an elusive thing. It doesn’t come easily. It takes both desire and discipline to achieve it. Many people have neither.

Buddha was making his way through the forest when he came upon a woman living in a rude hut. After recognizing him as The Buddha and offering him cool water, she told him how she had retired to the forest because she could no longer put up with the irritations of living in the village. “Their incessant foolishness troubles my mind and leaves me with no peace,” she explained. He was firm with her. “You must return to the village,” he said. “But why should I?” she replied. “Are you at peace now?” he asked. After a moment’s hesitation she replied, “Not really.” “That is why you must go back You must learn to find peace with your people.” “But what good will it do? What is the purpose?” He put his hand on her shoulder. “The first purpose is for you; to bring you peace. The second purpose is for them; your peace will help bring peace to them.” “But I can’t do much,” she protested. “You don’t have to. Just do what is your duty. It

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will be one step in moving us all toward a more harmonious world.” So saying, he thanked her for the water and walked back into the forest, leaving her there to ponder.

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Chapter Six Your Place on the Slopes

Who are you? No, seriously.

Of course you’re a skier, an accountant, a history student, a person of enchanting beauty, a parent struggling to make ends meet, a feminist, a Republican. But who are you really, the real you?

In the First Buddha we saw that you are not your body, even though that’s what you see in the mirror. That’s why most people think they are their body, and then glorify it or get all bent out of shape if it doesn’t meet their or others’ expectations. People who think they are their body have a very narrow opinion of themselves. In the Second Buddha we saw that you’re not your mind, even though many of us think we are and say things like “I want to be loved for my mind, not my body or my position in society.” But the mind alone is an instrument of cognition and seat of emotions, hardly a complete person. In the Third Buddha we saw that you are not your spirit, even though we may believe it lives on eternally. Here in this world, there’s too much else going on for us to say, “I am just spirit.” Stick a pin in your hand and say, “I

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am just spirit.” The spirit may be wide, wider than all possible worlds, but it’s not everything. Who we are is a combination of all three, causing that strange state we call synergy—where the whole is equal to more than the sum of its parts. On the ski slopes, chances are that you’re still lolling around with your body (and if you’re lucky your mind), thinking something like, “well, what else is there?” If the answer is “nothing,” don’t expect to ever really “find yourself,” on skis or anywhere else. The Third Buddha of the trinity that makes up the real you can help give you the sense not only of who you are, but what your purpose is and all those cosmic-type things you might not ordinarily give much thought to. Through silencing the noise and taking in the beauty and exhilaration of skiing, you can better tune in to that cosmic sense. You can get a better idea of who you are and what you’re really doing out there on that mountain. A guy was skiing alone for a change, carving half-elegant turns down a long cruiser run. His mind, which had been cloudy all week, began to clear a little. Patches of blue interspersed with the gray matter. The wind in his face, the crystalline sparkle of the snow, had a mesmerizing effect on him. Suddenly there was a flash and the heavens opened up. A great voice called to him with a sound that reverberated in his bones. “Roger, this is your life. I shall reveal to you who you are.” “Jeez, I must be dreaming,” was the

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feeble reply. As indeed he was, because such things don’t happen that way. More often than not, it’s just one subtle little clue after another, but the poor guy had no idea of that. Being a red-blooded American, he wanted it all big and bright and sparkly, and he wanted it all now. That night he looked in the mirror and he said to himself, “That must be me.” What are you doing out there? What is your place on the slopes? Is there a better reason for you to be there than just getting off on schusses and bumps? YES. Sure, skiing is fun, but try to imagine other possibilities. Imagine the mountain as a living thing, a sacred place. Imagine yourself just once as a worshipper. A pilgrim. Think of what it would be like if , when you went skiing, you thought of it as going on a pilgrimage. Just try it once. Try it one time. Make one day holy, just one. See if you don’t experience something more than fun. See if you don’t look at the people in a different way. See if you don’t experience the mountain differently.

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Oh, you’ll still have your fun. Let’s face it, that’s why you’re there. And skiing is fun. But isn’t there a place in you, somewhere deep inside of you, that sometimes yearns for something more than just fun? Don’t be afraid of making a fool out of yourself in your quest. Don’t think of what you could lose, but what you might gain. You could gain more than you ever imagined. Buddha was crossing a stream, stepping from rock to rock in order to keep himself dry above the swirling water. His foot came to rest on a slippery stone and he plopped unceremoniously into the stream. Anelephant driver on the far bank threw up his arms with a whoop and laughed heartily. As the dharma bum struggled to his feet, sopping wet, he called cheerfully to the mahout, “What are you laughing at?” Not recognizing him, the man replied, “You look like such a fool! Ha ha!” The sage was unperturbed. “Even the Buddha himself isn’t the Buddha all the time. No one is immune to folly.” So saying, he climbed to the bank of the stream and went on his way, happy in his heart. © Contact: katryrain@gmail.com