On Thin Ice: Skating with Our Fears

Let me tell you about the first and only time I went ice skating. It was part of a church sleepover event. All the kids and chaperones bundled up and walked about a mile from the church to a local park, where each winter the tennis courts were transformed into an ice rink.

I almost didn’t go to the sleepover because I didn’t want to ice skate. I roller skated every week at school, and at home in the driveway, and in parking lots by our house. But skating, on ice, wearing sharp blades? No way. No how. No thank you!

The fear of being called a chicken proved stronger than my fear of ice skating. I wanted to rent a pair of skates with double blades, thinking that would help my chances of success, but they cost more and I was low on funds.

So I laced the single blade skates as tight as possible, having heard that helped keep your ankles from breaking. With the support of a fence, I managed to stand up straight without falling over. Foam padding on the ground made walking less treacherous. With my hands tightly holding the sides of the rink, I slowly made my way onto the ice. It was freezing outside and my coat wasn’t zipped, but I was drenched in sweat. I’m sure it was nerves. I managed to get about a fourth of the way around using my arms to pull myself rather than pushing with my legs.

There were teenage workers wearing black and white striped shirts over their coats. They looked like referees. And kept blowing their whistles. One of them told me I had to let go of the wall. That I was creating obstacles for others by hanging on.

I remember letting go. And then I remember laying on the ice. I don’t remember the fall. My right leg folded weirdly beneath my body. Nothing was broken. But the blade of the skate had ripped the back pocket of my sweatpants. And the burning sensation suggested the blade had gone through to my flesh. I scooted my way off the ice and hobbled to a bench, where I pulled the skates off. With my boots back on, I walked to the bathroom to find a mirror. Yes, as I suspected the blade cut both my pants and my backside.

I’ve never had even the slightest interest in ice skating since. Nor have I released my fear of ice. It can be beautiful to look at. Inspiring to watch. Intriguing and mysterious to ponder. And it’s slippery. And scary. A fall or a slide waiting to happen.

On a recent walk on Belle Isle, I saw a group of people skating on a pond. Some playing hockey. I just kept thinking, it looks so thin. More than once as a youth, I heard an adult warn, “you’re on awfully thin ice.” This usually meant I was getting really close to trouble.

A day after seeing people on the pond, I was walking along the river. The ice here is different than on the ponds and inland lakes at Belle Isle. Strong currents keep this section of the river from fully freezing over. A flock of geese caught my attention; particularly, one large goose that was sitting at the edge of where the iced harbor and river met. A small move forward and the goose would have been in the water rather than on a cracking thin sheet of ice.

I wondered, why did the goose choose that exact spot? Chance? Preference? The view? Was it pulled or pushed there? By what?

Push and pull are both factors in where we land. We are pushed and pulled by multiple elements in various directions. Gently and by force. By our own design. Against our will.

I did not want to ice skate that night. Fear of ridicule from my peers and not wanting to disappoint others pushed me onto the rink. The pain and embarrassment of falling pulled me off of it. Throughout my life, guilt and shame, the weight of internal and external expectations, and a desire to belong or be accepted, have had strong pushing and pulling effects. More than I like to admit, I’ve ignored my own needs and wants to push or pull myself into situations or commitments I really didn’t want to be in.

Lately, I find myself feeling increasingly anxious and restless. Pushed and pulled. Of course, the extreme cold and harshness of this deep winter contribute to my state of mind and heart. As does the heightened political climate, not only in the United States, but around the world.

With so much beyond my control, I find myself craving safety, security, and certainty. I’m more irritable and crabbier. My patience is stretched. My energy low. My sleeping and eating patterns altered. I feel like I’m skating on thin ice. Not in danger of getting in trouble like I did as youth, but getting perilously close to letting fear take hold of my steps. Moving me in a different direction because all streets and roads are iced over. Hazardously slick. Requiring caution and a slower approach. Everything takes more time and planning. No one knows exactly how to safely navigate these unstable grounds, yet everyone has an opinion and keyboard to share it.

The creative life—like all of life right now—is filled with slippery and chilly prospects. Many of us are salting, scraping, and shoveling as we go. There are absolutely amazing, miraculous moments. And there are really hard days. Disappointments. Rejection. Silence. Thank you for your submission. Try again next year. Trolls on social media leaving ignorant comments. Spending hours on a project only to get no response or zero reactions.

It’s always a risk putting your ideas and work out in the world. It’s easy to let a good day pull you in and a bad one push you out. It’s tempting to consider changing who you are when who you’ve been isn’t drawing an audience. It’s appealing to contemplate partnerships and possibilities that don’t align with your values because of a promised pay day or promotion. It’s luring to go back to old places that didn’t respect you because a sure thing is better than a no thing. It’s enticing to plug and play yourself into a template that some stranger on the internet offers for overnight success.

It’s hard to be you in a world that says who you are isn’t enough or isn’t acceptable. That your sexuality or gender are sinful and illegal. That your work isn’t valid and your opinions are wrong and your poems don’t rhyme like they should. And your sermons aren’t really sermons because you’re not ordained. That you talk too much about politics and queerness.

I made a list of pushes and pulls. Of the things and thoughts that want to take me away from where I am. What I quickly realized is that everything on that list comes down to fear. Fear of the unknown. Of the future. What-ifs and maybes. Failure. Denial. I also saw that there was a very real fear of success. Of reaching my dreams. Achieving my goals. Making a difference. Claiming and using my power for good.

And then I saw that goose on the ice. Was it there because of the sunlight? On really cold days, the sun feels warmer than it is. Sunlight appears brighter after days and days of dreary clouds.

Ice feels thinner when you’re on the precipice of change. The ground is more slippery when you’re really close to grabbing hold of that life you’ve been building. Sometimes fear pushes harder and pulls firmer when you’re planted right where you need to be. Sometimes the lure to go back in time is the loudest when the present starts to resemble the blueprint you designed. And sometimes we do fall when we put on skates we never wanted to wear in the first place.

There are a million little and big things to fear in the world right now. There is no shame in being afraid or naming those fears. Sometimes naming them thaws their control over us. If and when you find fear flowing in, give yourself space to acknowledge it. Sometimes acknowledgement is all it needs to dissipate. And if it needs more, write about it. Talk with it. Walk with it. Take a nap and dream with it. Scream. Cry. Do whatever you need to melt its grip on you.

What does the fear look like?
Sound like? Feel like?
Does it have a smell or a taste?

Is it pushing or pulling you?
Where is it pointing?
When and how was it formed?
What would it take to release it?

Imagine your fear sitting on the edge of a large sheet of thin ice, sunning itself on a cold winter day. Find out why fear is there so it doesn’t take you where you don’t want to go.

No push. No pull. Just breathe. Be still like the goose. Sometimes thin ice is just the right thickness for sustaining us, and our fears, and this moment we are in. The river will tell us when it’s time to move. And invite us to lace up our skates again. Double blades will be free of charge.

With Water and Wonder,
Rebbeca & 10 Camels

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Next Wednesday is the start of Lent, those 40 days of prayer, fasting, and reflection that many in Christianity observe as part of the journey toward Holy Week and Easter. Here at the Well, we’ll be pouring out new water from old wells. Whatever your present or former relationship with the church, we think you’ll find nourishment for your spirit in these days when the whole world is a wilderness.

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