We’re so obsessed with “instant” these days that we’ve forgotten the value of friction. Growing up in Maine, on a street where parents pushed us into creative chaos, nothing was served on a silver platter. To play hockey, you didn’t just log on; you hiked. You took the forest path by foot, bike, or whatever motorized relic happened to be running that day, heading deep into the bird sanctuary to find 3rd Pond. The victory wasn’t arriving, it was the work that followed. We’d spend an hour or so shoveling heavy snow off the ice just to earn a place to skate. It was breathtaking in the most literal way, feeling that sharp, biting cold in your nose and smelling the pine as you prepped your stage.
There was a whole ecosystem to being present in those woods. Before the final descent to the ice, we’d hit the fireplace at the top of the hill to scavenge for returnable bottles left behind by the local partygoers. Depending on the time of day, that recycling money was a guaranteed win, our version of a side hustle. We’d lace up the skates right there in the elements, feeling the transition from the frozen dirt path to the glass-smooth surface we’d just cleared. The reward of hitting a puck around wasn’t just the game; it was the massive sense of accomplishment because we’d built the arena ourselves. We weren’t “consuming” an activity, we were the architects of it.
The best part was the timing. Just before we reached the point of actually freezing on the spot, someone would get a fire going back at the top or by the pond. We’d brew coffee or hot chocolate over the open flame, a welcome heat that felt earned rather than expected. It was always a little sad to pack up and head back to where we came from, but there was a deep sense of completion in sharing that time together. In a world where everything is a click away, there’s a lot to be said of this.
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