So I found my mother’s old ice skates in Grandma’s basement. In the Wisconsin winter of my third grade year, our Brownie troop was having a skating party at the local baseball field, which had been flooded and frozen. The quest is emulate those with greater experience, talent, or technique. The game is to round the circumference as skillfully as possible without hurting myself or anyone else. I am just a particle, darting in and out of valences, on a path that is neither arbitrary nor predetermined. Where I am, not who I am, is what matters. But the minute my feet touch the ice, my sinews and synapses rejoice and I feel an exhilaration I cannot hide. Notwithstanding my height, I am a severe disappointment to teammates in basketball and volleyball. Ice-skating is the only sport for which I have any native talent. Slips and spills and laughter and learning are all part of achieving beauty on ice and in life. In ice-skating Cynthia Hallen has discovered a talent and a metaphor for life.
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