Anyone who skates knows that you have to learn to fall. To learn it first is best, but to learn at some point is necessary.
My first time in hockey skates at Fort Dupont Ice Arena was all about falling, something I had been doing for months in other contexts.
Raised Lutheran in the Midwest, I became convinced of my fragility. I was taught to fear the many things that could break me—love, death, divorce, mistakes, disappointment, judgment, imperfection, loss.
“Don’t break your arm,” they all said when I told them I would learn how to skate.
They should have said, “Don’t break your heart.”
But I would have ignored both.
I had made a decision that fear would no longer dictate what I did or didn’t do. I had a new philosophy: “Caution, meet wind.”
So skating and hockey found me at the perfect time.
Skating required me to do two things I don’t like to do: fall and stop. Sometimes suddenly, sometimes deliberately. But I was determined to learn how to do both—and when each needs doing.
So, when it all fell apart, and I had no one to show me what I needed to learn, I took a little break from the ice, put away my skates until October.
In this picture, I am afraid, but I am focused. My mind is racing, my thoughts on repeat: Ican’tstopIcan’tstopIcan’tstopI’mgoingsofastandIstillcan’tstopI’mgoingtodieIdon’tknowhowtostop
howdoIstopI’mgoingtodieunlessIfigureouthowtostophowcanIgosofastwhenIdon’tknowhowtostop.
Caution, meet wind.