1988: I'm watching the Olympics on our small TV, anxiously waiting to see who prevails in the "Battle of the Carmens," my favorite, Debi Thomas, or Katarina Witt...As Debi faltered, I cried. I knew she would not be the Gold Medal Champ. I thought about how I could start skating and someday compete and bring Golden glory to the US...
Oh, the pure, irrational dreams of childhood! I was 13 at the time, with no skating background other than the simple leans and edges I learned from a book checked out of the library and put into practice on the bumpy surface of my Uncle's pond. I never took lessons, and my friends and I would skate sporadically on local ponds and makeshift rinks.
And yet, there was and is something thrilling about flying across the ice, balancing precariously on single blades. As I laced up my rental skates and took to the ice for the first time in two years last night, I could feel that familiar nervous anticipation. After a few circles around the rink, I felt the urge to fly, to spin, to dance across the translucent surface grow stronger. It is this same force that drove me to take beginning ballet in graduate school. To seek out challenging vinyasa yoga classes. To turn up the music and dance across the living room.
To dance, to twirl, to flow, to fly.
I too cried about Debi Thomas. Glad you are back on the ice!
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