Baseball

The diamond is sacred ground. A place where nostalgic poetry for the “National Pastime” is sparked and the ol’ ballgame reimagined in every utterance. While much has been said about this simple game, from its communal upstart to open fields all around the world, none can precisely express the individual experience that’s had when the sound of the rotating sprinkler sprays water over freshly cut grass.

The therapeutic intervals of silence and small talk had between teammates while listening to the ball flying through the air landing into the web of a well oiled mitt. The crack of the bat sending a ball screaming into the outfield as a fielder shuffles to get under it. Imagining ourselves in all of the greats that have stepped to the plate for a chance to get on the ballot for an entry into Cooperstown. Replaying what we would do as our cleats stepped into the batter’s box with 2 outs bottom of the 9th, calling the shot, and pointing intently to the wall in the outfield.

Not only does it spark the imagination, it inspires hope to the players that play it as well as to the fans that watch it. It takes us back to simpler times of stickball games, or some other creative variation, in city streets, in backyards, in parks and abandoned lots, on suburban and rural roads. It’s an even more beautiful game when played and enjoyed by a collective of races, genders and ethnicities around the world. Baseball warms the soul like apple pie, nourishes the appetite like sushi, and comforts like fried plantains. 

The game that tests fan loyalty while igniting debate over a floating invisible strike zone that can dictate an individual’s mood from pitch to pitch. In baseball, nothings happens until it happens. One moment the sound of crickets and bird songs can be heard, the next a roaring crowd as a melodically orchestrated double play unfolds at 2nd base. Nervous tension looms while awaiting the next pitch hoping the ball gets a one-way ticket to the bleachers and beyond.

Springtime gives us many things. Blooming trees. The elusive knuckleball. The grand “salami”. The shift… Most of all, it gives us fresh start to root for the home team. I love this time of year.

Go Giants!

The Journey. The Destination.

I don’t know which I enjoy more, the process of making matcha green tea or the tea itself. Just as that dilemma crossed my mind, an epiphany of the journey and the destination sprung into light immediately after. How can something so simple as a handmade clay cup and a bamboo whisk inspire profound contemplation?

There is something innately gratifying about a ritual. Tending to something with multiple, easy to memorize, steps brings a calm sense of purpose and affirmation to the soul. Done again and again where it becomes an effortless process allowing the mind to meditate, or at least reach a relaxed state. And like that, the moment passes. However, in that brief moment I enjoy the state of being present with the ritual itself, not thinking about the outcome or final product, just the shared instance with tools to create. Tools which have been created and shared with many people and ceremonies before me.

As the journey comes to a close, it opens the door to experience the destination. A cup of docile matcha green tea. Movement causes reverberation on the surface of the tea which tells the story of those who developed the ritual. While the ascending steam shares the magnificent smell, gifting the surrounding senses.

I may never settle the debate of whether I enjoy the journey or the destination more. Maybe I don’t want to. I enjoy what it is now.

The Cyclist. The Seafarer. The Wind.

Invisible adversary.
At a stand still, a flat uphill.
Held in place, evil spirited zephyr.
On two wheels, furious.
Yet, motionless.
Invisible adversary.

Invisible ally.
Swiftly about the sea, wandering at will.
Fly freely, deity of breath for feathers.
Bloated canvases, curious.
Set, ocean crest.
Invisible ally.

Wind enemy. Wind friend.
Seed of immobility. Motion fulfill.
Incoherent movement. Stagnation untethered.
Frustration is hideous.
Yet, to know is blessed.
Wind friend. Wind enemy.

中孚 – Truth Within

The I-Ching is full of mysteries. Much has been written and discussed regarding its meanings. This will be brief, hopefully enlightening.

Hexagram 61 (中孚 Zhōng Fú) represents Inner Truth and is figuratively displayed by wind over water.

It’s said that the wind blows and causes ripples atop the regularly peaceful surface of the water, in turn influencing the direction of the ripples.

Similarly, our minds are also swayed and influenced by outside forces, sometimes invisible, like wind. With so many opinions and so much information provided by social media and news outlets, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed and impressed.

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It’s in these moments the I-Ching unravels it’s mystery and becomes an applicable skill. Inner Truth is asking that we return to our authentic selves after being open to embrace ideas, concepts and thoughts, not our own.

Thus offering a full range of information to analyze and then impart our own thoughts.

The mind returns to peace like water returns to a still surface.

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Often times we don’t give ourselves the agency to be our authentic selves. We accept, deal with, or are just led to believe something that doesn’t sit well with our soul. Whether it’s to gain someone’s favor, seeking acceptance, fear of rejection, or simply don’t want to rock the boat. Being authentic or true-to-self, doesn’t necessarily mean disagreeing, being rude, or disrespectful. In fact, quite the opposite. Truth within promotes peace within.

Open Range

Are they really about the Old West “hang ’em high”?

Open range neighborhoods, loud banging pipes.

Cutthroats living like as seen on TV, seeing but can’t see posing for selfies.

All cities got them, weekend warriors getting into problems.

Modern day Doc Holidays but the weapons changed.

Six shooters turned Desert Eagles, lethal weapons one clip no sequels.

Out getting rings like the Spurs, dipped in camouflage but only move with the herd.

Plagued with a short fuse losing it first, the turn over rate is intentionally blurred.

It’s gone from high noon to go out and find doom.

Seems like the harder you are gives you the right to,

Man handle issues demanding fist fulls, grandstanding both hands fanning pistols.

Crime wave hang ten war on pavement, clutter up the block with stains and facelifts.

Lost desperados looking for love back, click-clack crimes define the times reminiscent of,

Dirt roads tie up my horse and saloon life. Bunny ranch eyes and vice grip thighs.

Hush the crowd in creeps a so-called, “Patriot” with a chip on his shoulder nicknamed, “I told ya’ll”.

Grim faced ready for action, the innocent hit the deck when panic attacks them.

Forget a ten pace, all hell blazed led smacking ricochet. What a shame.

Because the Monument still standing, the democracy and the people will do the same.

Never lost in narrative fog.

Cos-play commandos are the imperative flaw.

The Plague

Outside there’s a shivering cold war. With no score.

Every street I walk is drenched with folklore.

Some get caught up in it. Some live to go far.

My being complete, all present and accounted for.

On the front line battling plague. Rage against ways.

Underpaid, empty handed, still bringin’ pain.

From top of milk crate. Spill out the ill taste.

Mind and body connect. The weapons for this ill waste.