I play Silent Seatball with my kids because it is quiet, safe, and teaches them how to self-referee. I’ll be damned if they leave my class in June not knowing how to call themselves out when they deserve to be out. Most adults don’t know the value of saying, “Nice play. Looks like I lose this one.”
I think that I have friends at work now. It’s nice. It has been a while since I felt that, and for someone that always struggles to make connections, it makes me feel less like the interloper. But all of it is tempered with the knowledge that I will just end up leaving again at the end of the year, starting the process over again, for the hundredth time.
Today I used my back route home that reminds me that the slow, roundabout route is often much better than the express. I discovered it when the highway was shut down because of a light drizzle, but it has since become the way that I come home when I need to unwind, when the day was too long and frustrating, when I need a moment away from everything and everyone. I turn up the radio nice and loud, carefully obey the 60 km/h limit on the quasi-country roads, and remind myself that journeys outweigh destinations in so very many ways.
There are meatballs in the oven. They smell awesome and are almost worth the disgusting process of rolling raw meat and eggs into lumps.
Poems are speaking to me now more than they have in a very long time. Neil Gaiman , Robert Frost, and Walt Whitman are my current favourites; I keep delving back into Leaves of Grass for inspiration when I feel dry.
I am trying hard to learn new juggling tricks. This is because I got to meet Doug the Great, the original owner of my juggling balls, and thank him for giving them to me. He showed me a half-dozen new moves in about thirty seconds, and it has taken me a week to learn one of them. My kids seem amused by my attempts.