dark beacons
lessons in presence from a week in the french alps — montvalezan, france | no. 11
a jolt nudges me awake.
through half-closed eyes: the plush red seats of a now-stalled train. hour 7 of a supposedly 6-hour eurostar journey from lille to bourg saint-maurice, and we are still at least one hour away. another issue on the track, another delay. the french countryside sits unmoving in the window’s static frame.
i think back to that morning, the eight of us waking up in our respective homes at 5am, 6am — all of this for a ski trip.
yes, skiing. a year ago, i couldn’t imagine signing on to spend a full week in the cold, putting already-wary knees through the wringer — not to mention revisiting a particularly scarring memory of the last time i skied as a child.
but that was before. now? i guess i’m grateful for something to do, some way to fill the space in my days where my 9-5 used to be.
i’d spent the entire week before this in limbo, untethered.
i had underestimated the whiplash of landing in london january after a month of california sunshine and the constant buzz of holiday get-togethers, travels, the comings-and-goings of a big family at home. i was stuck in two places — somewhat here, partially there — and nowhere: straddling a crack in the earth. far from the present.
i told myself i would write. that when i came back to london, it would become the focus. it was, nominally — even if i had no idea what that meant in practice. i did write, sometimes.
mostly, the days crawled forward.
the engine eventually hums to life, setting us all back in motion. we rumble along in our plush red seats, moving away from somewhere known, bound for somewhere different — somewhere i can’t see quite yet.
les eucherts — montvalezan, france
as soon as we set foot on the mountain, it’s clear that i am on unfamiliar terrain. it’s my first time seeing snow in something like six years, and i keep being surprised at the small things i feel like i should remember from half a decade in new york and new hampshire.
everything takes getting used to: my clunky heel-toed gait in ski boots, like walking on boxy stilts; chapped lips, cold ears, ski gloves a size too small. the next morning, it takes me 25 minutes to sift through a pile of new ski gear to decipher what i need, in what order. the whole first day, my skis are heavy and awkward on my feet. i can’t hold them comfortably after taking them off either.
the series of repeated actions every morning, complicated and cumbersome at first, primes us for the environment and task ahead, synchronising us with the new reality of seven days in a french ski town.
it makes clear that life, here and now, demands something different of me — of all of us — than i’m used to.
by day three, ritual begins to become routine. the uniform of thermal base layers, a new fleece, ski socks, salopettes, and jacket, finally begins to feel like mine.
it’s the athleticism that draws me in first: the ache of strange new muscles, the challenge of trying (and often failing) to temper my speed. brokering a truce between control and the fear of falling in the physical act of digging in, shifting weight, making myself small and big and small again. finding that sometimes leaning in the very direction of that which scares me, counterintuitively, is the most steady way to go.
the same blue which nearly takes me out on day 1 (i’m looking at you, perdrix) becomes our well-known route for skiing in; over the next five days, i brace myself for its icy sections, steep drops, and inconspicuous turnoff back into les eucherts. the red bouquetin into italy, unthinkable at the start of the week, opens up an entire other side of the mountain by wednesday morning.
jan 30, 2026.
long and winding nature trails on the 18 into the 6 on the italian side, a baby black section or two, many more reds. on two particularly gorgeous, sunny days, the few runs for which my airpods were in while careening down gorgeous stretches of snow-covered pistes — these are nothing short of euphoric.
and beyond that, when i look up and out from my skis, i start to notice the world around it too: our spirited, never-ending games of cambio around the dinner table. italian greetings in mid-mountain bars with pellet-filled fireplaces in converted homes. cioccolata calda like molten chocolate, shared with friends at the bar du lac in piccolo san bernardo. snowfall at sunrise.
jan 29, 2026.
can you dream up something more profound than the sunlit slopes of mont blanc on a clear morning?
the unfiltered joy of listening to ludovico einaudi going down slopes with friends — the sight of them on the chairlift against the backdrop of the mountains. joe and nikhil going off-piste for a bit, their yellow and purple ski jackets tracing tracks down with so much silent grace.
these are gems, all of them.
it was easy to arrive fully present in these moments, the ones i didn’t want to end. i wanted to sit in them, revelling in their sublime delight.
there were others, too. these did not invite presence, but demanded it.
uphill stretches at the edge of my fatigue, straining to pull myself up by my ski poles. the final minutes in the sauna’s dry fire, its crawling heat only bearable when distilled into breaths, heartbeats, seconds.
experiences exalted, sublime in another sense of the word: from the latin sublimis, meaning “up to the threshold” — from sub- (“up to”) and limen (“threshold, sill”, its vestiges left in the word we know today as “limit”).1
there was no choice other than to be here; at the edge of capability, comfort, reason, there is nowhere else to go.
one of the days, just as i’m starting to feel confident, a whiteout catches us — my first; the slurry of clouds, fog, and sideways snow clouds my entire field of vision, drowning out any hope of clarity beyond the edge of my skis.
it’s one thing to have been warned about the risk of low visibility in the morning, another entirely to experience it: the complete disorientation of stumbling forward on deserted slopes, seeing everything and nothing, unable to discern sky from earth.
it is unlike anything i’ve ever experienced, this sensation of seeing without seeing. the inverse of a blackout: not the absence of light, but the absence of shapes to give it meaning.
there was a part of me which knew the stakes. there was fear there, absolutely, but was it wrong if another part of me… relished it, somehow? the sharpness of the moment, the way it brought everything into focus — if not visually, then viscerally.
halfway down a mountain with only a vague sense of direction, no obvious signals to indicate which is the safest way down.
uncharted territory, shaky legs.
heart pumping, breathing fast.
jan 29, 2026.
the almost-primal search for the next pole, eyes hungry for a sign of the path — hoping it is not just a trick of the light, but something solid.
the gratitude and relief every single time i see someone up ahead, eyes and mind clinging to the contours of my friends: mel’s periwinkle patagonia, paavan’s mustard backpack and navy blue silhouette, nikhil’s purple ski jacket — dark beacons in a cloud of white.
i thought i was looking for clarity: clearly-marked paths on sunny days; i wanted ease and smooth descents.
i found something else in the search for it.
how the extremities of ice and speed, heat and snow are a means of forcing focus, forcing presence. that sometimes, presence means staying the unmarked course, pole by pole, even when the path disappears beyond our limits.
i forgot that there is life to be lived here, too, squinting into a sea of white — a kind of beauty, rare and sublime.
yes, even here: in the formless ether.
suspended between somewhere known and somewhere i can’t see quite yet.
🤎 some everyday joys from the last little while
uno, house rules. laura’s successful ski trip campaign (third time’s the charm) & impeccable planning spreadsheets. erinn’s wizardry with an iphone 15 pro camera. ludovico einaudi. this classical music playlist on spotify. freshly-made guacamole. £5 books in brighton with anisah. the movie ratatouille. finding indonesian food in london. decaf earl grey tea. morning walks. kirkland soft & chewy bars (!!). time at home. juco’s homemade cookies. $4 taco tuesdays. getting to the end of yet another pilot g2 pen. the national theatre. calls with mom. dance classes with ria and alex. seeing my friends every day (!!). salt & straw ice cream. finally hitting the publish button(:
another fascinating etymology nugget is the link between the words sublime and subliminal, which interpret the sub- prefix in seemingly opposite ways 🥲
sublime(adj.)
1580s, of language, style, etc., “expressing lofty ideas in an elevated manner,” from French sublime (15c.), or directly from Latin sublimis “uplifted, high, borne aloft, lofty, exalted, eminent, distinguished,” possibly originally “sloping up to the lintel,” from sub “up to” (see sub-) + limen “lintel, threshold, sill” (see limit (n.)).
see also: subliminal(adj.)
“below the threshold” (of consciousness or sensation), 1873, formed from the source of sublime (Latin sublimis, from limen, genitive liminis) + -al (1)).