Polar Bear Plunge

I've written about my conversion from New Year's Resolution curmudgeon to enthusiastic espouser of setting intentions every January 1st. Every year, I sit down with my family and we make a big "Hopes and Dreams for 20XX" poster. We write them down and, if they let me, I hang it on a wall in our living room. Some of our hopes and dreams this year were:

• Stay away from our devices when we are with each other.
• Do chores.
• Run twice a week.
• Stop eating sugar.

Another New Year's tradition my daughter Lucia and I have every year is to do the Polar Bear Plunge in Lake Washington. In past years, a whole gaggle of friends has rallied to do the plunge, but this year that group energy wasn't there. Lucia and I planned to do it anyway, but on the morning of, when it was 31 degrees, we decided to bag it. "Too cold," we both agreed.

Later that day, Nancy, Lucia and I were taking a walk along the lake. Lucia did not want to take a walk and was cranky. She'd had a sleepover the night before and suffered the expected sleep deprivation hangover. But the day was gorgeous and we prevailed on her to join us. We could see Mount Baker and Mount Rainier. Coots and cormorants were having parties all over the lake and the sun was brightly shining. It was about 3:30pm when Lucia turned to me with a genuine smile and said, "Mom, I think we should do the plunge."

Seizing the moment of Lucia's mood change, I said,"Yes! Let's do it!" and we ran home to get our bathing suits before the sun went down. It happened quickly. We changed into our suits, put our bathrobes, wool hats and flip flops and drove the one block to the lake. Nancy and our four-year-old neighbor waited on shore with our robes and Lucia and I ran in together and dove in. As we ran out, freezing and happy, our excitement, joy and pride was palpable.

More than the frigid water itself, what I will remember from this year's plunge with Lucia is the moments right before and immediately after. That glimmer of time when Lucia felt moved and motivated to plunge and she got me on board with her was so thrilling, so connecting, so satisfying. When when we got out, wrapped up in our robes and hats and ran home to get into warm baths, we shared the thrill of accomplishment, of living one small dream together.

Those spontaneous moments, "Let's do the plunge!" moments come all year round, in big and small ways. I tend not to be open to them, not to look for them or see them, but this year I'm going to try. I can already see the little opportunities. "I feel like chopping off all my hair" was a big one for me this week. "I'm going to make a huge vat of granola" was a smaller one. It comes everyday when I make the choice to do Yoga (or not). There's always a choice, always a moment before, to go one direction or the other. And then there's the moment after, that exciting feeling that comes from listening to the whispers of your hopes and dreams.

Jumping in to a year of more of the same.....

Every year on December 31st I resolve to do nothing. And, like most years past, this year I pretty successfully did nothing with my New Year's Eve or my New Year's Day. Success. I neither contemplated my past year, nor planned for the months ahead. While I'm open to change, I really really like my life. There is very little I want to alter. I'd consider myself lucky if, in 2011, I got more of what I had in 2010.

At a party the week before Christmas, my friend Kate told me how much she hated Christmas, how she'd taught her two young daughters (3 and 5) that Santa didn't exist. This was refreshing coming from Kate, who I consider to be one of the more upbeat, positive, cheerful and engaged people I know. Her cynicism seemed to come from the absolute absurdity that everything Christmas has become-- commercial, indulgent, laden with wants and expectations.

I feel similarly about the whole celebration of the New Year. Why now? Why on this particular day am I changing my whole life? How is that even possible? I mean, what the hell have I been doing with myself for the last 365 days if suddenly I now need to shake it all up, turn everything on it's head and start from scratch. That's overwhelming. That's depressing. That's ridiculous.

Now, while I truly believe everything I just wrote, I must come clean about an unexpected 2011 New Year's Day event. In December a handful of my friends planned to do the polar bear plunge. Meet at Mount Baker beach and jump into Lake Washington at noon on New Year's Day was the plan. Initially, being pathologically competitive, I said yes to the challenge. Then, on New Year's Day morning, after an absurdly unplanned, highly relaxing New Year's Eve, I decided that I would absolutely not do the plunge. I don't need to jump into a freezing body of water to start the New Year, I told myself. But I wanted to see the event, so the morning of, Nancy and  I walked the two miles down to the lake to "watch."

There were people of all ages (even a 6-year-old from Lucia's kindergarten class), all smiling, shivering, gearing up for the big plunge. It was exhilarating, thrilling, contagious. Suddenly, I wanted to be a part of this group. I wanted to start 2011 with an Arctic jump in the lake like them. I deliberated. It was so cold. I had no bathing suit. No towel. No car to get home. I'm not sure exactly how it happened, but as all of the plungers shed their down coats and fuzzy robes, I was suddenly pulling off my sweater, kicking off my clogs and stripping down to my bra and undies. Holding the hands of my old, old, good, good friends, I ran screeching into Lake Washington. It was a big celebration of all of us. We were all brave, strong, impulsive, excited. And it happened to be 1/01/2011.

I still feel the same way about New Year's resolutions. Why wait until January 1st to jump into change? That can happen any time, and it should. I will probably never jump into Lake Washington in the winter by myself. Ever. But I very likely will do it next year. And for many years to come. I'll hold my friends' hands, adding new ones each year, and run screeching into the ice-cold water, plunging into a New Year of more of the same.