Out of the Office: A metaphor on ice

I went ice skating for the first time in years last week, during the annual community Christmas Eve skate at Kevin Bell Arena.

The last time I was there for something other than hockey photos, I was celebrating a friend’s birthday. That time, it’d been a while again since I’d put on skates. It didn’t take too long to get back into the rhythm of things — there’s a mixed metaphor here somewhere about skating being like riding a bicycle — but I mainly focused on going in simple circles while my friend, who’d had some figure skating lessons at some point in her life, enjoyed reenacting said lessons. It was a good time, one we unfortunately don’t get to repeat nearly often enough.

I returned to the rink alone on Christmas Eve — which maybe sounds sad but I was honestly looking forward to it. There were loads of people there but it didn’t feel overcrowded the way the rinks of my youth did — a benefit of living in a small town, perhaps. Santa sat by the Christmas tree propped up near the doors, chatting with local folks and handing out peppermints to kids and, at one point, me as I passed him by. Holiday music was just audible over the general noise of the rink, and all in all there was a rather delightful, cheery vibe in the air. I picked out my skates, tied them on and wobbled onto the ice.

Again, I was rusty, so I stayed close to the wall for the first twenty or so minutes, needing the emotional if not also physical support as I moved slowly around the rink. When I first stepped out onto the ice, I told myself that if I enjoyed myself and made it through without falling on my face, it would be a good day.

While it was a bit humbling to watch six-year-olds skate past me with greater speed and tenacity than I inherently possessed, there was a kind of comfort, or meditation, even, in just going along at my own desired pace and not having to worry about anyone else. As I went round and around, though, minute by minute I gained more confidence in my speed and stance and worried less about falling. I moved away from the wall inch by inch and let myself have fun.

It feels like a metaphor, especially in closing out one year and entering another. On Christmas Eve I thought about the last time I’d been to the rink with my friend on her birthday. I’d fallen at least two or three times, and each time she checked I was okay, helped me up and said, “At least you know how to fall correctly.”

This time I didn’t fall even once, a fact I am, perhaps inordinately, proud of. But being on the ice is one of the few times or places I’ve seen someone fall hard on their rear and laugh at themselves about it before immediately getting up again and continuing on. There’s the metaphor, I thought, or one of them — when you fall, you get right back up again, and sometimes if you need a little extra support, there’s no shame in that. That’s precisely what the metal ice walkers (or whatever they’re actually called) are provided for.

Another phrase came to my mind as I watched the community at play — safe risk taking. It’s one that I’ve heard a few times recently, in reading about or talking to folks about initiatives like Planet Youth Homer or the proposed new skate park project. I don’t have a particularly revelatory point here, but being part of the skating crowd last week made me think about taking risks — and being able to take risks — while being part of a community that watches out for you.

On Christmas Eve I saw people of all ages and abilities out there having fun together, in a time and in circumstances where loneliness — especially during the holidays — is increasingly prevalent. There were friends and couples holding hands, siblings pushing their wobbly tinier siblings along the ice using the walkers. Several times, I passed a particular married couple — the husband holding his wife’s hand as she hugged the wall, his body a buffer between her and the rest of the skaters sweeping by on the inside. I don’t think I saw him let her go even once. I overheard another man, clearly still getting used to his skates, respond at one point to some concerned passers-by: “I’m getting there! I’ll get there.”

There was a simple respect and patience on the ice that day that I sometimes miss in the real world. Every few turns I took, I’d pass a small child — maybe four or five years old — who was starfished on his back at the edge of the rink and appeared perfectly content to lie there until the free skate was over. His parent stood next to him, waiting patiently until he was ready to get up and go again. Eventually he did get up, and after that he’d eventually decide it was starfish time again. Good for him, honestly.

All of this feels like a metaphor, a potential allegory for real life as we mark yet another calendar transition in this ever-moving stream of time. But it’s that nearly-liminal period between Christmas and New Year’s as I write this, and my brain is rebelling against taking all these little observations and mushing them together into one big driving point or directive to round off this column. I’m not quite ready to get back on my soapbox, so maybe I’ll simply leave you with these snapshots and let you draw your own aspirations.

As for me, I’m aspiring to go ice-skating at least once more this season. Maybe I’ll see you out there.