A warm, clear October afternoon. The qigong class is practicing outside under a big maple tree. Kids are playing on the playground nearby, and a hum of activity pervades the space. Pretty soon the rec center staff are setting up tables next to bales of straw for their Fall Festival.
Our little circle of six is joined by a mother and daughter for a few minutes. They mimic our movements and move on to other forms of play. We're a mixed bag of younger and older, male and female, hipster and nerd, in other words a really cool cross-section of everyday people. We finish our form, talk about next week, and Miss Connie from the rec center comes over to offer us cider and donuts, now that we're all one with nature.
It's too nice a day to just get in the car and go home, so I take a walk past the playground full of kids climbing and watchful parents sitting on benches or standing around talking while keeping one eye on their babies, out to the ballfield, where teams of young adults wearing matching T-shirts play a spirited game of kickball. Some of the twenty-somethings run fast and kick with power; some of them are just starting to get the hang of the eye-foot coordination thing, but they are out there playing anyway, among friends in a safe social environment, doing something physical without having to be athletic.
Pinch me. This is what I want to do when I grow up. This little corner of the park is a little bit of heaven on a Thursday in October.
The next day is a workday, another opportunity to get something done, try to communicate effectively, solve some problems, and get paid for it.
Saturday morning has recently become another classtime in my week. I drive across town to another rec center and do my best to convey to adult students how to practice what I practice, and to my enormous satisfaction they seem to get it. This group is smaller - three instead of six - and a slightly different really cool cross-section of everyday people.
On my way out, I pass an empty gym. There is a leather basketball on the floor calling my name, so I spend half an hour practicing another ancient movement form. Right hand, left hand, legs and back interacting with the ball, the floor, the backboard, and the hoop. Muscle memory kicks in big time, and I discover to my mild surprise that I can still do this meditation form I've been doing for going-on-sixty years.
I'm not alone in the gym. A couple of neighborhood kids are shooting at the other end. The rhythm of their movements with and without the ball show that they know what they're doing, and a lot of their shots go in. At another basket a young man and his son toss the ball back and forth. The dad looks like he's more familiar with the soccer field than the basketball court, but he's getting it too. Dribble, pass, shoot. The drum-like sound of the ball on the hardwood.
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