At the Top of the Hill

There was a moment a few weeks ago, while sledding- that moment where the sled is teetering at the top of the hill, a breath before gravity tips the sled forward and sends it swooshing down to the bottom of the hill. I’m sitting in the sled and that moment is fill of breathless anticipation. And dread. Some call it anticipation. But really it’s stomach churning dread.

Here’s the thing, I realized sitting at the top of the hill, though. When I’m in that sled teetering at the top of the hill, I look down and I see what is ahead of me. And there is one tiny path that is super smooth, and I know if I managed to go down that path, everything will be predictable, clockwork, as I expected. But all around that sliver of smooth clear path is lumpy bumpy snow. Snow with divots. Snow with footprints. And I know that hitting those spots will be jarring and even painful. It’s this not knowing what the ride will be like that makes me hate being at the top of the hill.

I was thinking about this moment a lot this week as I get ready to step back into the rehearsal room. I’ve been feeling a little off. There have been so many changes at work, and I feel as if I’m sitting in that sled, filled with dread, waiting to slide down the hill. I might be pushed, or I might push myself. Or gravity and physics might just do its thing and send me off before I know it.

This – perched at the top of the hill about to go down – is where I am today. I can see a path for the next few weeks where everything is frictionless and I avoid all obstacles, and at the same time I also see all the roadblocks and difficulties that lie ahead. And honestly, I don’t know until we get started if things will be nice and expected, or if I will hit all the potholes I see. And anyway, it’s more than likely there are bumps in the smooth way too because in the white sleekness of the path, the bright sunlight can hide all the bumpy parts. So there’s really no knowing. But there is fretting and resistance and reluctance.

I can try to steer to the narrow smooth sailing path. But, it’s a sled. It’s an imperfect vehicle and I can only do so much. Odds are – because of weather, weight, and physics – I will likely veer down the bumpy parts of the hill and all I can do is brace myself and try to keep myself (and the kids, and the show) inside the sled. And if we do fall out, I can just pick ourselves up and continue the journey, or carry the sled back up the hill to do it all again.

That moment at the top of the hill, though – it’s the worst and best moment. Teeth gritted, not knowing when the bumps will hit. But also knowing that if I don’t go tip down, I won’t know how amazing the ride will be.