Baseball and Life

"I walked down to the end of the street tonight and watched a little league baseball game. The kids were the age where most of them still know how to run better than throw or catch. It was the first time I've ever seen someone make an inside-the-park home run on a bunt.

I was impressed by the coaches of one all-black team. They were competitive, knew baseball, and encouraged their players to play as professionals (such as telling them to try to throw out a player stealing second base, even though some of them couldn't throw very well). Most impressive was when a player on their team made a mistake, they didn't berate them, but put their arm around them and talked to them (I imagine about how to improve it next time), told them it was ok, or in some way encouraged them. It did my heart good to see coaches who enjoy what they do, pass on their knowledge, and care about their players as they did!"

Redemption of Suffering

I wrote this while staying with my parents last month after having a spinal tap, being extremely sensitive to light, and not being able to get out of bed. After my Dad had come into my room and brought me some food, I was wondering about the purpose of suffering. It occurred to me that one thing suffering can do is display the beauty of compassion in people and, at our best, spur us to work together. I also noticed, after not seeing anything outside for I don't know how many days, how beautiful are the crevices of bark on a tree in the afternoon sun. During that time I made an attempt to write down these thoughts:

The Thread

In the tapestry of this world,

there is a mysterious thread

that touches every other,

from the base to the head.

It is a thread called suffering,

and its color is thundering.

"What's the purpose of this cast?"

leaves the other wovens wondering.

But the Weaver knows,

in both fair and foul weather,

this one displays the kindness of the whole,

and binds them all together.

Because of this one,

the others are even brighter,

and working with this thunder,

makes the whole even tighter.

Clay

I wrote this on July 8th of this year when, after seeing a neurologist, I knew my extreme light sensitivity could be due to a spinal fluid leak. I would have a spinal tap the following week:

"Since I've been sensitive to light recently, I've needed to keep my room dark as I lay in bed at times during the day. Yesterday it was raining and I thought about what St. John of the Cross must have felt, being held at one time in a cold cell in a castle for his beliefs. Difficulties make me want to write at times. I started this yesterday while staring at the darkness in bed:

Why, O’ Potter, dark do you keep

with once prized, now sharded crest,

an earthen cistern in the deep

of this tumultuous, strong tempest?

In the swirling, do vases fly,

as in an universal dance,

some wet and leaking, but some dry

flashing in woven appearance.

So cries a vessel made of clay,

in cracked and dripping form,

“What’s the reason, why this way?”

amidst a blinding, crashing storm.

Pot-maker breathes, “My clay, don’t weep,

I make you and I make the years,

Breathe with me from within the deep,

To transport peace not holding fears.”