Thursday, July 2, 2015
I’ve been wanting to blog every day. I really wanted to write everyday while traveling in Europe, but there was too much going on. After sightseeing and playing tourist, I was too tired by the time we got back to the hotel. Everything was interesting and worthy of a picture. I never did figure out what these steps were about while in Switzerland. Sometimes things were explained to us in French and not in English. Other times I was just over saturated and couldn’t take in any more information.
Now that I have the entire summer in front of me, there’s no reason why I can’t blog every day. Or is there? And why is it so important for me to write every day. I admire people who blog every day, the ones that travel and blog, and the ones who reflect upon their lives, their daily lives of what is happening around them. Writing doesn’t have to be around special events, at least that’s what I think.
For some reason, the more I want to do something, like writing every day, the goal feels so big that it becomes an obstacle rather than an encouraging little kick in the butt. For writing, the more I push to write, the more I push back. I’m not sure why. The real Progress happens when I stop thinking about the idea of writing every day. I’m learning that I’m more of a day at a time kind of person. I don’t really know if I have consecutive days of blogging. I think I have at least a couple of days. Does it really matter? If I concentrate on the right here and now, I don’t worry about what I did or didn’t do yesterday, and certainly thinking about if I will write tomorrow, shouldn’t even be on the screen. Sometimes all it takes is a little inkling while journaling that tells me, hey this might be a good topic to blog about. Why not?
I’ve written more this summer than I did last year, which really doest say that much, but I don’t have a garden to distract me this year. After having a large vegetable garden for the last several years, I’m realizing how much time the garden took out of me.
I’m realizing that this is the year to focus on my house, making spaces writeable.
I love my kitchen. It’s a hundred degrees out there, or really close, but it is comfortable in the darkened kitchen. Abby the Labby Number Nine is my biggest distraction. I’m not exactly sure what she wants, but she doesn’t want me to sit here and write. It helps that I’ve got loud music to help me keep writing. When I look around the kitchen, there aren’t too many things to distract me, the things that say, “Hey, put me away.” “Clean me.” Is it possible to have a room without something asking for something? I’m not sure. There always something to clean or fix in a house. It’s a good thing that I’m really not a perfectionist.
Maybe I should not have focused on the recyclable cans sitting in the sink that were in my direct line of sight. Maybe I should type with my eyes closed and then I don’t see all the crap that needs to be done, but I like to see the words form on the sheet.
I have to go on a tangent. One of the first classes I took after moving to Eugene was a photography class at Lane Community College. Seeing images appear on a blank white piece of paper was more than magical. (I sure hope in my editing, this sentence is re-worked.)
I’m just realizing that the photography story wasn’t the first tangent. How can it be? I’ve not touched the original topic that I held when I titled the blog, a few distractions ago.
Confidence. I’ve never understood this emotion. I know that I have to have confidence in order to do something well. But in my mind there’s a thin line between having Confidence and being Cocky. I’ve no idea who or what taught me this life-lesson. Probably more like multiple who’s and whats. Where did I pick up the idea that it’s not good to brag about deeds?
Perhaps I’ve written a blog with a similar vein or it’s one of those blogs that is sitting in the draft pile waiting for my attention. It’s possible that I had thought about this idea, but it never got transposed from my brain to paper. That happens more often than not. And it’s all about confident, feeling that I’ve got something worthy to say.
While reading Virginia Woolf’s Diary, she mentioned that if she reads what she’s written too many days afterwards, she tends to not like what she wrote. I do the exact thing. I’m starting to do that right now.
Tonight is soft ball night. I didn’t play last week. My back. My left big toe nail fell off. Just half of the nail. Good enough reasons to not play. The prior week’s game wasn’t helping any, haunting me. In the week before, I played third base. I’m not sure if I ever have played third. Sure, I got this, I said. I’m a gamer. I’ll do what the team needs. The first ball didn’t get by me, but it managed to get under my glove and smack me in the feet. Good thing I had cleats on; it still smarted and caused me to utter some expletives.
It didn’t take long before I petitioned Emily to switch places with me. I feared for my life. What a ground ball is moving at a faster rate than my reaction, the physics of fear increases. Unfortunately, swapping to Left field just encouraged the batters to hit it into the field. Damn, I was running all over the place. Think Bad News Bears. Now think of a Bad News Bear player beyond menopause and you’ve got a good image of me scrambling around left field. It didn’t help that our side of the inning was a one-two-three kind of affair. But the opposing team took advantage of us and held a batting clinic. My brain and my body were not on the same page. I’m so much slower than my brain thinks I am. I can’t track the ball. I can’t catch the ball. I can still throw the ball, but sometimes that’s the most I can ask of my self.
Even though it was against the Rec Softball League rules, I begged for the Right Fielder to swap places with me so I could graze in right field and stay away from the ball. Seldom do balls come in that direction. Every so often it happens, so I still have be on the ready.
Tonight I’m going to play a new position and give Second Base a try. I’ll swap with Michelle who loves second. And now this is where the notion of confidence comes in. Eventually I always get to the meat of the matter, but it does take me some meandering.
When I think of Second Base players in baseball, the two names that pop up is Dustin Pedroia. Pedie. I love him. I hope he mends soon. And then there’s Brock Holt who has done a phenomenal job in filling for Dustin while he’s hurt. I don’t know if he’s actually on the injured reserved or whatever they call that list that hurt players go on so the team can bring in someone up from the minors.
Dustin and Brock own Second Base when they step on the field. Actually Brock has that attitude regardless of the position they put him in. He’s the best utility player I’ve ever seen. I think he’s played every position except pitcher and catcher.
When Dustin is playing what television viewers don’t get to see is the way Dustin moves. He’s involved in every pitch. Constant movement. There must be some sort of physics lesson in this with the force of motion; does it take less energy for an object to move if it’s already started? I’m not really sure where I’m going with this, but Dustin’s feet are never still. He jumps on every pitch, regardless if the ball gets hit by the bat or hits the catcher’s glove. I wonder if he’s every worn a pedometer to track how many steps he takes in a game. Pedroia is so invested in the game that he’s predicting where the ball is going. I wonder if he’s got one of those brains that can track what every batter has been doing in the game or has the tendency to do. I don’t even try since I can’t remember who did what. I rely on side line people or coaches to move me.
I don’t know if the story is true, but this is what is I have heard about Dustin. He grew up with people telling him that he can’t be a professional baseball player because he’s too little or too something. Some people take this information and feedback and they give up. Dustin does the opposite. I sure hope this is true; it’s also possible that I’ve put the poor guy on a pedestal. What makes me affirm the story I make up about him is that he plays hard and doesn’t give up. I’ve heard commentators call him a spark plug; Red Sox management must agree me with me as they gave him a lengthy extension on his contract. I’ve been arguing with a friend of mine who thinks Dustin is one of the players that need to go; her list is a lot smaller than mine.
The other day I was watching a baseball game. Probably the Red Sox. And one of the announcers was talking about a third base player. The coach of the team thought people weren’t really putting their best foot foreword on the field, so he asked each person, “What do you think before the ball is hit?” The third base guy said that he thinks two things, The first is he hopes the ball is not hit to him. And then he hopes the ball isn’t hit to one of his teammates.” That ended the meeting.
After my lengthy vacation from life, I came back to the softball team with a relaxed attitude. I hadn’t realized what a good vacation can do for the soul. Anyway, Angie was absent, so I got to play short stop. Favorite position. Always has. That and number eleven, but that’s a different blog.
The best thing about success is that those experiences are kind of like seeds for future events and moments. Mistakes are also good in my opinion; something has to spread the manure. Anyway, I was so psyched to be there that did everything I could. I cut my expectations to just fielding the ball and thinking where to throw the ball. I wanted the ball hit to me. And this is where the cockiness comes. Maybe. Please tell me your opinion. In this game, I didn’t have any throwing errors, that I recall, but the strength of my throw wasn’t strong enough to get many outs. Flips to second and third were a piece of cake, but getting the ball from third to first was just my Albatross. I’d like to think that it’s mind over matter and that if there’s a will there’s a way. Why not throw in as many cliche’s to give myself a pep talk. I’ll let you know how I did.