Figure Skating
How discipline can lead to trust can lead to play
When I pull open the glass door, the smell hits me first: thin, cold air mingled with the heavy scent of gasoline and an undertone of sweat.
The smell is so distinct, so pungent, so comforting. I take a deep gulp of it.
I pay my admission fee and look for a space on a hard, low bench. As I pull my skates out of their tote bag, I inspect their scratches and scuffs. They are old: creased and marked all over, more gray than white in some places. I remove one fuzzy guard and gently thumb the blade: still sharp. Still mine.
Muscle memory kicks in as I stretch open the tongue, jam in my foot, kick down on my heel, and pull the laces quickly into place. First the right, then the left. I shove gloves on my hands and zip up my fleece, then it’s into the rink.
My first step onto the ice is firm. The second is strong. Soon I’m picking up speed as my body gently rocks with each stroke. I have to resist the urge to fly, allowing my legs and lungs to warm up in the freezing temperature.
The first curve appears, and I lean into it deeply. I know the steel tied to my feet will carry me as I glide parallel to the boards. Then another straightaway: I dig into the ice with my blades, creating that signature scraping sound, moving faster and faster, crossing my ankles and shifting my shoulders until I finally allow friction to bring me to a stop.
Being a trained figure skater at a public session feels a little bit like being a towny in a tourist destination. The rink staff recognizes me, I know where the cleaner bathroom is, and I’ve seen what’s behind doors labeled “No Public Access.” I like it better in the off season, when I can have the ice almost entirely to myself.
That’s because for years I skated several times a week, working one-on-one with a wonderful coach, slowly building my skills and eventually preparing for regional competitions. Some jumps and spins gave me so much trouble that the bruises they left on my knees lasted for months at a time. But when I finally landed them? The feeling was euphoric.
Any athlete will tell you: the discipline it takes to improve is not that fun. The repetitions are boring at best and disheartening at worst. But athletes also know this truth: if you don’t put in the work, you can never taste the glory.
My time on the ice has taught me an important lesson that I now apply to my spiritual life: discipline matters. If you want to learn how to land an axel, you have to practice as often as you can, both on and off the ice. You have to get familiar with failure. You will probably need to ask for help. But once your body knows how to do it, you can use that skill as a building block in a performance, creating something special to offer the audience that only you can.
Practicing my faith every day for years and years has been like this. Going to Mass on Sundays, giving up something each year for Lent, or listening to the voice of the Spirit is not always fun. But these repeated actions of prayer and service, living within the cycle of the liturgical year, studying theology, and attempting to build Christian community have made my faith stronger. I now have years of personal evidence to back up statements like: God is good. God is faithful. God loves us and desires to be with us. And these statements are soft places to land on the days, weeks, and months when I inevitably fall.
It has been nearly two decades since my last competition, but I still skate whenever I can. That’s because for me, even when I’m not working toward a specific, concrete goal, it feels like a spiritual exercise.
All those years of training, all those months of bruised knees, all those hours of discipline added up to something akin to a superpower: the ability to play with forces I can’t see, only feel.
Most people know that when a skater spins, her body is wrapped in centripetal force, allowing her to turn in a circular motion. As she pulls her arms in and up, she goes faster. It’s amazing to watch, but it’s also amazing to feel your hair, your clothes, your skin being pulled up and away from the center of your body.
Beyond the flashy tricks, there are still forces at work on a skater when she leans into the curve of a spiral or picks up speed with a series of backwards crossovers. I like to feel that deep pull of gravity while I’m on the ice, knowing in my bones exactly how fast I need to be going and how far I can lean before I will fall. It’s weighty and playful, thick and elusive. Like mystery. Like Spirit.
After years of discipline, I can trust those forces to hold me as I fly and glide around the rink. I can invite them to join me as I experiment with new combinations of edges and turns. I can see them as friends while still respecting the power they hold.
After years of practicing my faith, I like to believe that I trust God, too. I know I can invite God into the most mundane parts of my day, ask Him to fix my biggest problems, and give Him my wildest hopes and deepest dreams. And in return, I find His playful, loving presence everywhere: encouraging me, teaching me, providing for me, delighting in me, calling forth the best in me, when it’s fun and when it’s hard.
I'm not saying that faith is earned or that the discipline of organized religion gives you permission to push the boundaries with God. But I do think that practicing faith makes us more comfortable with mystery, more willing to trust and even play in the Spirit’s presence. This is not a comfort that leads to complacency, but one that brings about a warm affection, turning a seasonal attraction into a place that feels more like home.
Like athletic skill, faith is a mysterious combination of gift and grit. Both often involve showing up at odd hours in odd places with few others around. There are proven pathways and people that can help you develop each, but growth takes time and trust. The discipline they require might not always be fun, but it can draw forth parts of ourselves that we could only hope for at the outset, like perseverance, courage, and a joy that makes it all worth it.
If you liked this essay, would you forward it to a friend? Thanks for your kindness!
What I’ve been reading and writing lately:
After having it on my shelf for years, I have finally picked up Walking on Water by Madeline L’Engle and it feels like a big, long, encouraging letter from an older sister. A huge shout out to for helping me to prioritize this wonderful book!
A while ago I mentioned that I am diving into a Well Read Mom group this year. I was nervous about trying to read more challenging literature in this season of life, but the group has been so, so good for my heart and soul! Let me know if you are in one too and we can geek out together!
Coming up…
Next time I’ll be writing about one of my favorite book series from my childhood. Leave me a comment to tell me one of yours!
I especially liked your description of leaning into mystery:
"Beyond the flashy tricks, there are still forces at work on a skater when she leans into the curve of a spiral or picks up speed with a series of backwards crossovers. I like to feel that deep pull of gravity while I’m on the ice, knowing in my bones exactly how fast I need to be going and how far I can lean before I will fall. It’s weighty and playful, thick and elusive. Like mystery. Like Spirit."
Your essay reminded me that I took a skating class 55 years ago that was offered to the Harvard University community in Cambridge Massachusetts. I was nanny to researchers in the medical school, and their privileges extended to me. I took their five year old daughter and we went on Saturday mornings to practice on the hockey rink. Our instructor was the coach for the hockey team, who had also been a figure skater. I had a wonderful time there and skating the outdoor rinks during the winter. And then it was over! I returned to the PNW, and there wasn't a rink nearby. The weather is not cold enough in the winter to flood the parks and create outdoor rinks as they did in Cambridge. (I wonder if they still do that.) But I still see my skates on the shelf in the garage and remember what fun I had, even though I fell down a lot! Which kind of goes for my spiritual life as well. I have left some practices on the shelf, I still fall down a lot, but my spiritual muscle memory keeps me going! Your posting helps a great deal. Thanks, Coach!