I am cross-country skiing on a groomed track which is either level or slightly downhill with small jumps which seem to become smaller as I approach them. To my right across the snow-covered field I can see my brother Eric skiing diagonally away from me on a similar track. I turn to the left to traverse through corniced snow along the rim of a steep slope on my right. As my skis cut through about a foot of soft slab the snow below me sluffs away down the slope but the slides are too small to pose any danger. Nonetheless a woman who has been watching my progress scolds me with a loud voice, apparently angry at me for disregarding the risk of getting caught in an avalanche.

This brief vignette does not seem to offer much to work with but is drawn from personal experience. When my brother and I were kids we used to build little ski jumps on the gentle hill across the street. I never succeeded in staying airborne much farther than the length of my skis; our hill was too gentle and I was too timid to seek out a more challenging one. Just as my childhood ski jumping was constrained by my fear, so too was my engagement in more significant areas of my subsequent life including both work and intimate relationships, where fears of failure and rejection respectively dissuaded me from seeking what would have satisfied me. I believe that Eric was similarly constrained by his fears, though we never talked about that together.
Ironically as adults, Eric and I were more free from fear in skiing and similar solo physical activities than in aspects of life which involved other people. Skiing across a steep slope to kick off snow slides would have been my idea of fun back in the day and while I never got caught in an avalanche, I probably tempted fate a few times over the years. In the dream though, the risk was minimal; as I did in much of my life, I was playing it safe.