I woke from a dream this morning. We were kids throwing a baseball in an empty lot. Each time it was my turn I was hesitant, apprehensive, unsure how hard to throw, how much force to exert, and each time I threw the ball it fell short, rolling on the ground in front of the catcher. Each time I threw I felt more embarrassed and inept.
Then something changed — I’m not sure what — but I no longer wanted to restrain myself, exactly measure the force of each throw, hesitantly attempt perfection and always fail. Something in me no longer cared whether I tried and failed nor how obvious my failure might be to others. I just wanted to throw the ball for all I was worth.
I cocked my arm back so far my front foot cleared the ground. I was balanced on a single foot, pivoting, utterly committed, focused only on the throw. I put everything I was into that throw, conscious of nothing else. My body uncoiled, my arm whipped forward, and my wrist snapped the ball as it left my hand.
The ball burned past the catcher and broke the windshield of a car parked on the street. The car alarm blared as we stood and looked at the shattered glass.
“Jeez, the cops” some kid said (in my dreams kids still say things like that) and we all ran as if it spooked by a Halloween wind.
I suppose some context is needed. I’ve been wondering about my place in the world and more so, the world in which I have my place. I’ve spent the last year trying to convince other people to do the right thing, the thing I thought right, with predictable results. Even if the right thing was apparent, it remains a game of Prisoner’s Dilemma.
I don’t have the passion to be an evangelist however secular the cause. I wore myself out for little purpose. Questions haunted me. What was my enduring passion? What sustained me through the bleak times? What made me whole?
I suspect we live our lives in spirals, returning to common themes and familiar places but at different levels, different perspectives. I’ve come ‘round again to this familiar need, to understand the world in which I have my place.
The stories that linger on the land aren’t divorced from our own. They shape our days and measure our nights. They frame our lives with daylight and night, with mythic images, with fire and ice. This place especially, at the edge of the world, between the mountains and the sea, this mythic place obscured by cloud.
We weren’t the first ones here. There are stories older than ours. And older still, the stories told in rock and water, restless mountains and glacial ice. Those are the stories I want to learn.
We are so deeply rooted in the earth that our disdain for it wounds us immeasurably. Without knowing the stories of a place we can’t know where we belong. We become like ghosts driven by the wind.