A frozen lake. A smooth expanse of perfect ice.
As a born and bred west coaster, frozen lakes are not part of my heritage. Skating for me was in a rink going in wobbly circles to the sounds of the latest pop song. But I am in Whistler and the lake outside our door is frozen. I am suspicious, nervous, too many movie scenes of people being swallowed up by icy water running through my head. I fill my husbands ears with dire warnings of tragedy.
But I am in the clear minority. People flock to the lake, carrying skates, hockey sticks, and hockey nets. They come joyfully, gleefully, people of all ages, all sizes, all skating abilities. They sit down on the half submerged dock that serves as a bench, pull off their boots, pull on their skates and then jump up with a whoop and a holler.
And then they play. Big macho teen boys skate as fast as they can toward each other and hug with a spin, teenage girls in figure skates steal the puck and get chased, older rotund men hover on the edge of a pick up game and join in. Young children too small to skate, oh well, I guess they’re not too small, they can skate rings around me, play hockey with mom and dad. Even the dogs are playing, slipping and sliding and crashing into one another. Everyone is grinning, the dogs too.
Playfulness. It’s beautiful. Wishing you a year of joyful playing.