My mom does not understand what skating means to me. Probably no one ever does or ever will. To everyone, it is just a rectangular piece of ice that people pay 13 bucks to trace the perimeter mechanically like some trapped clockwork mouse.
But it is not.
It is my form of meditation, the way a repetitive action could be hypnotizing and healing.
It is my little isle of self-isolation and liberation.
It is my sanctuary, in a twisted sense.
Of course, I’m not saying this because I’m some arrogant snob whose high nose squashes people who doesn’t skate. I’m just stating my point that everyone enters the ice rink for a different reason; some for the thrill and exuberance from the speed that walking on the ground could not give them; some for the adventure that their friends coaxed and promised them into; some out of curiosity; some to pursue their passion in the world of figure skating or ice hockey.
For me, I use my tiny enclosed cool haven to think. I would set my legs to autopilot, my body gliding across the cloudy plane in a grace I could never achieve on land, until my heartbeat calms, my mind breathes serenity and the cacophony of the surroundings fades away. It is just me, the frozen water beneath my feet, the icy breeze in my hair and the scratching of my blades on ice.
Then, almost as if the walls of the dam of my mind could not hold it together, the flood of thoughts would burst through: frustration, anger, pain, crazy happiness, giggly insanity, hollowness, fear, hope and everything else in the mix, everything else that I had felt and been through since the last visit. Even my own room at home does not provide the security this freezing oasis has, because here, there wouldn’t be anyone to knock on the door, to intrude without permission, or to grab my hands and drag me off to dinner.
Like reading, skating grants me the ability to do away with the rest of the world, to switch it off with a flick of my wrist. I'm not making a cowardly escape, I'm simply bailing out on it, chewing down the harshness of reality till it breaks into incoherent pieces and allows me to face it again. How would YOU deal with the oppression of reality?
Not that I’m ever counting on my mom to understand it. I just need to find ways to haul my ass there with the least resistance from her. Probably working there? Mmm. That would be a perfect part-time job.
Maybe.
St. Christopher 0 :-)
St. Ying Hui 0 :-)
Peter, a new friend I made at the rink (:
Miss hanging out with you, mate.
We do this again before your leaving for UK?
