Moments of Solitude

She is sitting at the back of the bus.  And she smiles.  This is not a smile of joy or happiness.  This is the sweet refreshing smile of relaxation.

The bus has started its ascent up narrow roads with tight turns, escaping the metropolis and the electronic signals that bind her. There is the satisfyingly soft thud of the magnetic latch as it closes around her now silent Blackberry. She tucks it gently and quickly into her bag. She sits back. She smiles.

The bus continues to climb into the mountains. A ray of sunshine finds its way through the nearly closed curtains, illuminating the pages of her book as she rhythmically turns the pages. Unaware of her surroundings and completely wrapped up in her book, her smile lingers.

Her daughter’s head rests lightly on her lap. Her left hand, with age defying softness pats her daughter’s leg as she naps. And she smiles.

The road is steeper now, the cut backs more frequent. The curtains are open now. The quiet whine of the wheels has been replaced by an excited buzz. Parents and children eagerly point out to one another the falling snow, the pine forest and its white blanket. In the excitement of the moment her smile widens.

She checks in with her family. She slips out of her slippers as she enters their room. She steps onto the tatami mats, closes her eyes and takes a slow deep breath. The first scent of a tatami room is like the first taste of luscious dessert, where everything is most intense and most satisfying. The invigorating potpourri of straw, wood and rice paper fill her lungs. And she smiles.

She bundles up and takes a rare pass on the pot of hot tea awaiting on the low table in the middle of the tatami room, where later, their futons will lay. There is snow on the ground and snow in the air. She announces that she will have hot chocolate later. And she smiles.

She stands now atop the mountain. “There is only one thing to do when standing at the top of a ski slope,” she begins, more to herself than her husband standing by her side, “and that is go down.” She pushes off gently, gracefully, effortlessly with the same ease with which a ballerina launches herself into a grand jeté. She goes now, swish, swish, swishing her way down the hill. And, oh my, how that girl does smile.

She stands now at a turn on a ski trail on another mountain. It has stopped snowing. The wind has calmed. The sun has graced her with its momentary presence. The trail, the forest, the snow, this spot is hers and hers alone. She takes a deep breath that fills not her lungs, but her very being with the tranquil solitude of this place, this time, this moment. She slowly exhales, drawing out the moment; treasuring it. She sets off toward the bottom, for that is what a ski trail is for…to go down.

The welcome exhaustion of physical activity fills her muscles. The lounge is nearly empty and she saddles up to a small table next to a ready fire. The room is warm. The snow swirls outside on frigid gusts which shake the windows. She cups her mug of hot cocoa like a prayer. She takes a sip. And she smiles with a small proud nod.

She slips quickly and easily out of her layers of clothes in the changing room. She leads the way, with daughter trailing into the communal shower and ofuro (Japanese style bath). The room is an immense warm, humid space, filled with steam from the showers and ofuro. There are no tacky florescent lights or gaudy halogens. The room is filled with natural light coming through the window that runs the length of the ofuro. Snow, wind, and pines form a rugged bucolic scene. She gathers a low plastic stool and plastic basin, and walks to an open shower along the wall. Her daughter has followed suit and now they sit under the low showers and begin to bathe. Mother and daughter exchange highlights of the day with giggles and shampoo. They rinse. They smile with anticipation.

Japanese style bathing is all about the dip in the ofuro. Plunging your body, neck deep, in water that is nearly at a boiling point. The key is to use the plastic basin during the rinsing with equally or nearly equally hot water at the end of your shower. This shocks and prepares the skin for the plunge into the ofuro. This is no regular Japanese ofuro, this is an onsen. They smile as they walk past the ofuro, through the steam and out the door.

The door leads to a heatless hallway that ends in a small courtyard that is opened to the elements. They walk quickly without hurrying toward the onsen – the outdoor stone version of the ofuro. There are no tiles, no walls, just a small waterfall at one end. The snow and breeze welcome them as they slip under the steam blanket into the wonderfully warm water. They look out at the pine forest as snow slaloms on the wind through the trees. And they smile.

Occasionally the wind turns and sweeps away the blanket of steam, snow flakes like dust bunnies follow in its path. They dance on invisible heat contrails before dissipating. The newly fluffed steam blanket is slowly pulled back up under their necks, as they nuzzle under its warmth. And they smile.

The snow in the courtyard beckons to the little one as snow is want to do. The little one, pink from the heat, answers the call, as little ones are want to do. She is no longer a small child with hints of baby fat, but a svelte, sinewy tween. She dashes with other young pink bodies oblivious to the cold, quickly making snow balls then returning to watch them melt on the edge of the onsen. Mothers share knowing glances and smiles…each smile hiding the whimsical memory of days gone by when they would have readily done the same.

The onsen heat is sinking deep into her bones now. She closes her eyes and lets out a long slow deep breath and pure relaxation engulfs her. She rests her head against a stone and looks up. A glacier of snow pushes out past the eaves and extends the gable. It is pure white along the roof line but lightens as it nears the front edge, turning first opal, then opaque and finally into pure crystal before tapering and dropping into delicate icicles. The underside of the glacier is seemingly patched, like a quilt, with the hues of white interspersed with intricate designs of pine twigs, needles and cones.

The wind again blows the steam blanket away and snowflakes rush in for one last waltz. Like silent dancers they are present but not noticed. Her attention is now on the light wispy billows of snow that blows off the roof in light drapes and the world is seen through the delicacy of an ephemeral snowy bridal veil. She pauses as this thought takes her away; she bows her head; and she smiles.