bodhisattva at the ice rink
We’ve been ice skating lately. Partly in a nod to winter exercise (after noticing that the kids were off the wall at 6pm while I scratched my head wondering, did we get any exercise today? Did we actually leave the house?); and also because it’s crazy fun.
I still get walloped by memories from Iceland Skating Rink in Berkeley (RIP) when I walk in the door of our local skating rink. Even though it’s been, oh, 27 years since I wobbled off the rink in size 6 skates to hold a styrofoam cup of Lipton’s noodle soup under the perfectly-metered stream of hot water to wake up the dormant salty broth, stepping into the freezy metallic smells of the ice rink today brings me right back.
Col and Rose skate bravely enough (wiping-out so regularly that I hardly flinch anymore when one of them is splayed horizontally on the ice) that I’m free to glide, or er, shuffle-kick around the small ice oval, singing along to Black Sabbath and then Brittney Spears, high on my own endorphins and the pure fun of it all. The kind of fun I don’t often treat myself to. The kind of fun where you realize after an hour that you have to massage your mouth out of its smiling position.
A lot has changed in 27 years. My body reacts to being a mother, frowning upon impacting anything I need to raise these children, which seems to be, well, everything. So, I skate like a happy Frankenstein, a little stiff and awkward, singing myself around the rink.
I was laughing with one of the ice rink employees about this, about my propensity to tense against falling. “Oh, that’s exactly what you shouldn’t do,” she said. “The only thing that’ll save you is to relax your body and lean into your fear.”
The only thing that’ll save you is to relax your body and lean into your fear.
I’m trying this out.
On more than just the ice skating rink.