Embracing space and the outside air is the lure and joy of outdoor skating

— -- What is soul to you?

To some, soul is the essence of a person: The invisible piece of us that lives forever and moves on from this world of porta-potties, fast food and? Andrew Shaw?penalty-box meltdowns after our bones and bodies feed the worms. To some, the soul is the hard drive that we feed and control with our true thoughts and real actions.

Growing up Catholic, confession was a way for us to reboot that invisible soul and "dredge the harbor" of the filth and muck that we accumulated along the way watching "Baywatch" and looking at our sister's Victoria's Secret catalog. (I always felt my soul was near my gallbladder.)

Walking out of confession with a clean soul made me feel lighter and faster during my high school years. Then, two days later, I'd slash Rocky Bragg in a fit of athletic passion during hockey and feel terrible again. Rinse, repeat, rinse, repeat and lose the Lady Byng on the first shift. And then ask for forgiveness.

Watching a Zamboni (is there a better word?) slowly circle the ice has always been a metaphor of confession for me. A spiritual, gas-powered act of contrition. A Gregorian chant echoes in my mind as I watch 20 minutes of ice shavings accumulating into snow erased into new glass. Renewal. A frozen baptism and a washing away of sins and imperfections that a period of hockey and a period of life can bring.

Then, skating onto that absolved ice is a step into possibility and wonder. A fresh start. Optimism is high. Gratitude is high. Our thoughts are only on speed and the air spraying on our faces as we pick up speed. This is why hockey players are generally happy and why, if you go to a public skate or a frozen pond, you see so many smiles. This is not a coincidence.

The three keys to happiness: Gratitude and service to others, optimism and the choosing of one's thoughts. Skating takes care of all of those in one lap. It's why ex-players want to coach. It's why men and women play adult-league hockey at odd hours. Skating makes one happy.

This brings us to an even more unique joy: the outdoor skate. In these parts of the Northern Hemisphere, we are in the three- to four-month window of frozen ponds and lakes. For those who wish to step out of the back door and skate, it is also the season of the backyard rink.

The outdoor skate takes the zen of skating to a higher level. Whether by weather or via the garden hose of the backyard rink owner, the first step on outside, virgin ice (aka "glass") is an even bigger explosion of gratitude and happiness and the thought of possibility. There is no roof and no walls. Just space.

Space is our greatest foe and friend. Space can make us fearful. Fearful of filling that large area of openness with meaning and understanding. Space can also beautifully shrink our feeling of self-importance, however, and remind us that life is really a team sport. There is really no such thing as an unassisted goal. Someone, in some way, assists every goal. The selfless see that. The self-absorbed do not.

That embracing of space and the outside air is the lure and joy of outdoor skating. I had an outdoor rink for 10 years, starting in 2001 until a shocking, soul-crushing and sad slew foot of a divorce sent me sliding across the ice of life. That backyard rink was difficult and at times frustrating. A wealthier or lazier man would have hired someone to construct it, but (A) it's not that hard and (B) the satisfaction level of building your own is also good for the soul and a good example of sacrifice and love to your kids. The brackets, the boards, the liner, the water (24 hours nonstop filled it), the waiting.

You pray for dry, 18-22 degree nights. You learn humidity is the enemy of ice. You learn not to save the liner for another winter, because mice will eat little holes in it over the summer, and when you go to fill the rink up the next winter, you end up flooding your neighbor's yard. "Sorry, Bob!" You love when Marcus and Joshua, the neighbors up the street, use it. You can still see 9-year-old Brett and 7-year-old Malorie anxiously walk out back after school to see if the ice is firm enough to skate on. You have a picture of 2-year-old Jack's first, wobbly steps on ice. That was yesterday. Today, he is a senior in high school and a captain on the high school hockey team. Life's strides are fast and abrupt.

That backyard rink now sits unused. Just boards and blacktop and basketball hoops. My current plot of land one town over is not suitable for outdoor skating. The old backyard rink is now a monument to a decade of countless joyful winter days of hot cocoa and cold wrist shots and at least four destroyed hockey nets. I'm confident that when my kids look back on their childhood memories and scan pictures, the ones of the backyard rink will move them the most. And perhaps, hopefully, I'll be in a health and geographical position to help them imagine and build one for their kids.

My three kids will remember the feeling and power of time and space. The time when they were young, grateful and optimistic that life could feel like this a lot. The glassy ice, the air on their face and the feeling of flight. And, yes, sometimes you have to shovel. And don't be that person who doesn't embrace, or hides from, the shoveling. Lean in and push. The reward can be great. In the backyard or at a local pond, lake or bog. Get outside. Get moving. Feel life on your face.

A little work and a little love goes a long way. You've got to have soul.