Generational spirals

celebrating Mother's Day, appreciating movement, and considering the things that we inherit

From my mother I inherited a love of nature and a tendency to overthink. An abundance of height, but not always in self-belief, and a predisposition for catastrophizing.

But that is not what this story is about.

I arrived at the sleepy French village of Sainte-Foy at dusk, hopping off the bus to feel the cool, exquisitely fresh air brush against my cheeks. Surrounded by snow-capped mountains, the valley was enveloped in a tranquility so powerful it was almost palpable, somewhat musical. A glacier stream trickled down from the hills, providing a constant background noise—the kind of sound poets write songs about, I thought afterward. But at the time, I wasn’t thinking; I was too busy living. Breathing in my surroundings so that I could liquefy, bottle, and store the memories, as one stores perfume, which would later allow me to spritz myself with the scent of nostalgia whenever I pleased.

The first time I saw Mont Blanc it was a Tuesday morning in late March and the daylight was harsh and brilliant as it reflected off the snow. It burned your eyes to observe the surroundings without protection - an overwhelming radiance, as if you were looking directly at the sun.

As I sat on the chairlift and looked over my shoulder at the highest mountain in the Alps I recalled the last time I had been surrounded by a sea of ice. I was seventeen, on a family trip to Colorado, visiting my mother’s sister - a woman whom I always admired because her laughter was like a flower: it inspired happiness because it reminded you of hope.

My mother is Canadian, or perhaps some would say she was Canadian. She has lived in the UK for over twenty years and I’m not sure at what point you stop being one nationality and become another. Either way, she grew up skiing. Her dad put her on the slopes as soon as she could walk and the pursuit of adrenaline- with its fascinating erasure of past or future narratives - was introduced into her life very early on. It was the classic ‘granola girl’ childhood: summer hiking trips into bear country, winter expeditions in the snow. With extreme sports being the maypole around which her formative years spun, in retrospect it is no wonder that she grew up to compete in downhill skiing, the fastest of all ski races.

Like all downhill racers, my mother would fearlessly launch herself down steep icy slopes, gathering momentum as she descended the course. She regularly exceeded 60 mph, a fact I can only fully appreciate now as an adult.

I haven't skied for six years so before I went on this trip I asked my mum for advice. Her biggest tip was to “lean your weight on your downhill ski.” It’s rather counterintuitive, to gravitate towards the place of perceived danger, but like many of the things that mothers teach their children it contained an infuriating level of wisdom. Such wisdom, I have found, ranges from the mundane to the monumental, from the sage advice to bring a coat as it will get cold (it always does) to the reminder that the presence of somebody else’s beauty is not the absence of your own.

That is to say, whether we like it or not, our mothers are always with us.

“Thank you mom, you’re my guidepost for everything.”

As I heard my skis scrape against the ice I knew someone in my bloodline had felt this sensation before. Of being free and unencumbered, gliding across the snow atop two slim boards inside boots that held feet, which were attached to shins that connected to knees that supported the movement.

Like the sun that reflected off the pristinely white snow, as I gained confidence on my skis the brighter the image of my mother in her youth became in my mind.

Who was this girl? This supremely athletic, extraordinarily gifted girl? I didn’t recognise her, but she seemed know me, and she steadied my nerves when I needed support and assuaged my fears when they emerged.

The faster I dared to ski, the feeling of her being there with me so too gathered speed. Like any extreme sport, the act demands total presence. When you’re hurtling down ice and one wrong move could cost you lifelong disability you don’t really have the luxury of amusing yourself with narratives of past or future dramas. In this way the feeling can be addicting, and I understood the thirst to go faster, steeper, smoother every run.

Forty years ago, I can imagine her as thoughtful and reserved. Though it’s difficult to perceive our parents with any accuracy. Would we get along now, my mother and I, had we been young adults together? Does parenthood change people irrevocably? These are questions that, like all truly great questions, do not have definitive answers.

We've heard Didion say it is easy to see the beginning of things, harder to see the ends. But could my mother picture the start of her journey as a mother back then, with all the subsequent elation, agony, disharmony, and community it would bring?

On my final day skiing I saw a young French athlete zip past me with all the brilliance of practised perfection. It was like watching a vintage recording of my mother, the exceptional woman from whom I acquired my passion for adventure and appreciation of literature. She filled my childhood with magic and laughter and nature and movies, liberal in a media education ranging from films as risqué as Burlesque to ones as wholesome as The Sound Of Music.

She has been unflagging in her efforts to remind me that I am loved, supportive of the assortment of hobbies that have come and gone throughout the years. As a teenager, I felt connected to her in ways beyond articulation. Her sadness was my sadness, and when she was happy so was I. She has lived for many years on this earth without me, but my entire life thus far has been layered atop the foundational beams of her strength.

From my mother I inherited a love of whimsicality, an appreciation of difference, and a spiritual yearning bordering on the extreme. She is my ultimate inspiration in everything, and I see parts of her reflected in the people I love constantly: my best friend’s eccentricity, my boyfriend’s fearlessness.

If one day I do have a daughter, I know she will be loved because my mother’s love will overflow from me into her. The regenerative power of love is infinite, increasing the more we use it, spiralling off into eternity.

If there is one generational legacy I hope to leave behind, it is love.