[bread, circuses, celestial orbs]

You know the worm has turned when, instead of puttering around all Saturday afternoon, taking the occasional look at the ballgame to see what's happening, you settle in on the couch and spend the day with the Hoosiers and the Razorbacks, the Boilermakers and the Musketeers, the Blue Devils and the Mountaineers, with an occasional stroll to stir the pea soup simmering in the kitchen, fetch wood from the woodpile, or Tuffy muffler to pick up the truck. Not a good sign in my quest for body-mind integration, a balanced life, and lower utility bills. Here I am watching TV while I should be building a greenhouse out of recycled Heineken bottles.

But this is what we do in my tribe, and after all these years, I guess I'm a member (if not exactly in good standing), to the extent that I watch the game, admire the nervy determination of the underdogs, and get excited at the amazing last-second heroics by the Hilltoppers. At one point I just had to go out to the garage and get an old ball, long idle from games in the driveway, so I could spin it from hand to hand while watching real players on a flat screen, so I could enjoy the tactile sensation of the round ball, feel the nubby texture, grip the seams.

Good players get into a rhythm, with or without the ball, and good teams find their collective rhythm, fanning out on the hardwood and converging on the basket, trying to keep it going for 40 minutes so they can live to play again. Give and go, pick and roll, box-out, throw the outlet, run the floor, fill the passing lanes, move your feet, a hand in his face, follow your shot. Whether they're playing above the rim or feet on the floor like Siemsma, Butch, and Krabbenhoff, the team that plays together like a good band is more fun to watch and more likely to win.

So it should have been a smooth transition from the living room to fellowship hall at the big church, where about 50 people were sitting in a circle chanting and drumming for the vernal equinox. It was a little disjointed but still worth going, and I got to contribute my share of woodblock viruosity while other folks dominated the djembe. That's okay, there was a good groove going for a while, and these things take time.

Sunday was the flip side. Most of the afternoon I pitched in to help a friend move a few pieces of furniture out of his house, and in the process got to meet some of his friends and see their meditation center downtown. The little green building is not much to look at from the outside, but inside it's stunning, with lots of beautiful iconic Buddhist art and vibrant color everywhere. I even scored a Tibetan T-shirt and a futon out of the deal.

Home sweet funky suburban home, glad it's not me who has pack up every single possession and either sell it, give it away, or take it to the new place. I got home in plenty of time to put a big, round loaf of sourdough in the oven and overbake it to a nice, tough crust while wrestling with putting the disassembled futon frame back together. Teamwork helped there, too.