Maybe it’s the Noonan’s Park imbedded in me, but I’ve always loved watching ice skaters. Not the Dorothy Hammils, (that’s dating). Not her perfectly coiffed  hair bouncing into position as easily as she doubled axeled her way across the pristine ice. No, I liked watching my friends. The other fifth grade girls. No hair in sight — tucked up under a stocking cap. Perhaps a few frozen strands dangling against a pink cheek. Pink, like the woolen mittens stretched out as long as possible to each side for balance, trudging between glides upon the cracked and uneven frozen ponds. Girls like me didn’t know a “camel” or an “axel.” We merely jumped. And often, like me, broke our green little wrists, and proudly wore the casts for 5-6 weeks. 

There was nothing perfect about it — the skating I saw yesterday at Centennial Lakes Park. But what joy between the wobbling! It was as if nature itself was giggling. And so did I. 

I try to remember as I “lace up” for the day — it’s supposed to be fun. Not perfect. Of course I will always try to improve. Be better at making. At living. Loving. But that doesn’t have to take away from all the imperfectly wonderful times that I spend, mid-wobble.