Note: This writing practice is just that—practice. I want to get more comfortable with my voice and get into the habit of publishing rather than editing things to death or fiddling with a piece for so long that I lose the “finishing energy.” Some days, like today, with my morning coffee and journal session, a phrase such as today’s title takes me somewhere unexpected. This summer I vowed to focus on filling up my cup, on making time each day for something that brings me pleasure. And so here it is with minimal edits.
The cicadas song was deafening in the midday heat of south Alabama. In full sun, I stood in the lush grass behind one of the baseball dugouts in the empty city park at Cedar Street. I was full of self-loathing and bitterness, my not-self. I was pining for an older boy that my brother and I had played tennis with last week. He had no idea I had a crush on him. There was no way I would tell him and risk being ghosted again.
A loud and sharp thump reverberated against the dugout’s green metal roof. In my peripheral vision, I saw something ejected from below. Startled, “Hello?” I said.
I cautiously approached the entry and peeked into an unoccupied dugout. A baseball was at my feet at the top of the steps. Its worn white leather was coated in red clay dust, nicked and scratched. The soft red threads were a little frayed and tattered.
Bewildered and hesitant, I said to no one, “But the only time I played ball was in elementary school. I was terrible. And I took a driver in my left kneecap.” A crow landed in the shade on a branch of the elegant live oak tree. It cawed loudly.
“Okay, maybe I was not that bad. I played at the end of summer band camp at our celebratory barbeque potluck a few times and did not embarrass myself.” Thunder rumbled in the distance.
I took a knee and gingerly reached down to pick up the orb. Turning it over in my palms, I smiled when I saw a fluorescent orange sticker with a printed black arrow and “This way up.” I pulled on one of the threads. The ball gently unfurled like a quenched resurrection fern, the leather petals now revealing a netted mesh bowl of soft wooden curls, red cotton/polyester blend edging. I walked over to a low bough of the oak tree and placed the “nest” amongst the tiny branches. The crow took off. I felt dizzy and languished.
I returned to the dugout and stepped down into its cool shade, the metallic scent of red clay, and the ashy aroma of concrete blocks. I lay down supine on the raw pine bench. “Maybe the sky will break open,” I said.
I don’t know how long I was asleep. A female voice said, “Concentrate on certainty. You have to trust. Surrender.” I awoke to the soft patter of rain on the metal roof and a symphony of birdsong. I felt a lightness in my chest.
Lightning and thunder cracked nearby. “One one-thousand, two one-thousand,” I counted to get its distance. Within a minute, the wind picked up, the sky darkened, and I was in a torrential downpour, a frog-strangling rain. It rolled through, ending as quickly as it started.
I emerged from the dugout, picked up “Silver,” my blue seated chrome-coated BMX bike, and pedaled the mile home. As I inhaled the scent of summer rain-soaked pecan groves and corn fields and witnessed the steam rising from the asphalt, a fierce determination took hold of me. I vowed that when I got home, I would sit at my desk and pour my heart out with pen onto paper.
P.S. Today’s musical accompaniments:
Iron and Wine, Resurrection Fern: YouTube, Spotify
Florence and the Machine, Only If For a Night: YouTube, Spotify
Radiohead, No Surprises: YouTube, Spotify
sheteststhewater 