Actual Olympic medals from Vancouver. As close as I'll ever get. |
I
turn on my television and watch it about once every two years. I
realize this rate of use makes even owning the thing a debatable
point; nevertheless, we actually went out and bought a new one (in
2004, I believe) because I wanted to watch the Olympics. They didn't come in on the TV my dad had left me in 1990. Yes, seriously.
The
Olympic Games is pretty much the only thing I find our TV useful for,
but for those two weeks, I have meals and mail forwarded to the
living room. This gives me plenty of time to muse over deeper
meanings of it all, and I found one in the men's figure skating
competition. And no, it has nothing to do with their outfits.
Did
you notice something unusual this year? Every
single final round athlete in the men's skating competition this
winter fell. Every. One. OK, maybe not the American from Chicago, but
he had enough almost-falls to make up for it.
Yet
still, three men went home with gold, silver, and bronze, and the
world believed they had seen the best skaters alive out there on the
ice. Even with all the spills. All the mistakes. All the “could
have been betters.”
Which
really made me think. None of those men had to do quad jumps. None of
them had to push themselves to try impossible tricks and defy
whatever had been done before. None of them had to fall. They could
have played it safe and gone home unbruised and satisfied that they
had done the best they could. But none of them did.
Every
one of them pushed it to the next level, tried, fell, and went home
as victors anyway.
And it occurred to me how absolutely beautiful it
is that falling on our faces can be a victorious moment.
Real Olympic podium from Vancouver. I wonder who stood on this thing? And how many times she or he fell? |
It's
beautiful that, in this arena, failing at a hard thing is
rewarded more than playing it safe and succeeding at something too
easy.
You
get more points for having the guts to whip a quadout there and
accidentally touch down with two feet than for doing a
double-toe-loop that you could do when you were thirteen. You're
recognized for attempting something challenging when you could have
stuck with the safe and easy touch down. I love that. Victory from
spectacularly trying and equally spectacularly wiping out. And, of
course, getting back up to keep skating anyway.
Olympic Flame |
Maybe,
it's the fear that keeps us from trying new things, throwing it all
out there on the ice and possibly falling hard, that keeps us from
real victory. Maybe we never get that golden moment we long for
because so often we would rather do what we know we can do. Spinning
in the air is dizzying, and we'd prefer to do a quick hop and call it
our best effort.
But
it isn't. Because so long as we never push it one more level up,
never find a challenge just a little tougher than the last one, never
seek that one risk we are not sure is within us but we need to find
out, we are not giving it our best. We're giving it our OK. Gold
medals are never won by OK. (Unless all the other speed skaters wipe
out in front of you. Then, well, it happens.)
What
do you know you need to stretch to try right now? It's OK to fall. OK
to fail spectacularly. OK to put everything you have out there and
mop up the mess. It's just not OK to never jump at all.
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