For about eight or so years I was a figure skater, a pretty good one too. As a kid, I had skated on ponds, hiking into the woods for maximum privacy and playing at being Dorothy Hamill or skating around the pickup hockey game at the community center's flooded outdoor rink. I loved to skate, loved the freedom, loved the momentum. When I returned to it as an adult, I remember stepping onto the ice for the first time and feeling instantly at home. Skating made sense and my body understood how to move across the ice instinctively.

I have been fascinated by what is called "the zone" in sports because I have experienced it twice in high pressure situations, a few times as a runner and many times on practice ice. I was a mediocre softball player who earned a spot on the JV and later varsity softball teams because I was a hard worker. I wasn't particularly skilled, I almost never delivered when the pressure was on. I played well enough to keep me on the starting bench until a talented sophomore moved up to the varsity squad mid-season of my senior year. The last game I started we played a superb team from Vestal with a fastball pitcher who went on to play college ball. She had a windmill action to her pitch and great control over placement. Nobody on our team could get a hit that day. I stepped up to home plate in the fifth inning, and I could sense the parents sigh with frustration. I knew the first pitch would be centered over the plate, though I don't remember thinking that, I just told myself very calmly to start my swing before she released the ball.

When you connect squarely with a fast pitch, the redirected momentum sends the ball flying. I hit a triple that day. The shock on everyone's face was obvious, including my own. My coach, dumbfounded, asked me what I had been thinking, but it was really just instinct that told me to swing early. Now, writing about it, I realize that I had figured out how to address the stress of knowing my days as the starting first baseman were over by throwing caution to the wind. It can't happen without years of training to reach that point - trusting that your swing is level, that you'll watch the ball all the way in. In later years, I shocked a new skating coach by dancing two perfect patterns of a gold level dance at a test session, something I had never accomplished in practice. My old coach was there and had seated himself in a position of intimidation near the judges - I saw that just as we skated to the starting position. I don't remember actually skating the dance, just that my brain shut itself off and let my body skate without criticism. I had logged so many miles on that dance that I could skate it in my sleep, and that's what it felt like - those two minutes are a complete blank. I remember waiting for the music to start and I remember leaving the ice afterwards with my knees shaking. Both times I was completely absorbed in the activity at hand.

Being in the "zone" or flow means that you have to have the perfect balance of skills and challenge. I think that is absolutely true for my skating example. I actually feel more at home on the ice than I do walking around my house. The use of edges and lean, the interruption of momentum to change direction with a strong core, the bend of knees and ankles all made perfect sense to my body. My mind was confident that my body could execute skills worked on endlessly and learn new ones through patiently breaking down a skill into steps. I got into the zone at practice all the time and it was addictive. I wanted more of that feeling that comes from total uninterrupted focus, so I practiced more, which led to more flow. A happy cycle of doing.

The other day I started wondering why the zone is only centered around mastering a physical activity. Can we find flow in other areas of our lives? A quick search led me to this article in the Medical Daily where the author tells us emphatically yes, yes, we can.

“The Hungarian psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (pronounced Cheek-sent-muh-hy-ee) has been researching the concept of “the zone” since the 1950s. He calls it “flow.” Through his research, he’s found that flow isn’t limited to the arena of sports. Authors, painters, sculptors, and surgeons are all capable of entering a state of flow. According to Csikszentmihalyi, these behaviors make for a sense of fulfillment that far exceeds any external reward, such as money or acclaim. It is the sensation of being enraptured, immersed, mesmerized, even, that produces such happiness.

“We can be happy experiencing the passive pleasure of a rested body, warm sunshine, or the contentment of a serene relationship, but this kind of happiness is dependent on favorable external circumstances,” he wrote in Psychology Today. “The happiness that follows flow is of our own making, and it leads to increasing complexity and growth in consciousness.””

It's about being curious and persistent and enjoying intrinsic reward, which makes a lot of sense when I consider some of the most contented people I know have careers and/or hobbies that absorb their attention and can cause them to lose entire days when engaged. Fear not, you can incorporate flow even if you haven't found that thing that makes you say, "Just one more row" when everyone else is heading for bed.

“But for those who don’t possess great creative skill or the desire to do things for their own sake (Hey, no one’s saying a little something for the effort wouldn’t be nice), the experience of flow may still be within reach. As Csikszentmihalyi writes, the mundane tasks we perform at work or in our everyday lives may hold potential for flow.

Rather than cut corners, he says, flow can be found in the sense of accomplishment. The inert act of painting a portrait, which contributes nothing externally, has a sense of accomplishment built in. The same may be possible for the average grocery store clerk, simply by asking several questions: Is this step necessary? Can it be done better, faster, more efficiently? What additional steps could make my contribution more valuable?

“When approached without too many cultural prejudices and with a determination to make it personally meaningful, even the most mundane job can produce flow,” he argues.”

My husband finds flow in mowing. He actually has areas that no one else is allowed to mow because we don't do it with the same care. I would say that I don't get it except that I do. He is an extremely creative person (he designs for a home furnishings company), and mowing with care is immediately gratifying, unlike the design process for a mid-size company where it takes months, even years, to realize the final product. He finds satisfaction in doing something with care, something that has to be done weekly regardless of his pleasure in the task.

What mundane chore gives you pleasure? I actually love to produce dinner for my family most nights. There is something satisfying about pulling out the cutting board, prepping ingredients, methodically following a recipe, and listening to the bustle of the house as people arrive home from school and work and show up in the kitchen to chat and snack. It has to be done by someone, and my effort lends value to the idea of sitting down and eating together, which is the extrinsic reward.

My morning dog walk is a more gentle form of flow as I absorb the subtle changes in the seasons - the evolution in color from spring to summer, the blooming process of flowers in roadside ditches, the patterns of light across the landscape, the feel of the path beneath my feet, and listen to inspiring books and thinkers or nothing at all.

From this morning's walk - early morning shadows on a hay wagon.

Old skates with all the dings from learning.

The gold level dance that looks deceptively simple.

The Zone - the purest form of internal reward?