USPS Have A Ball Postage Stamp
Pip and I, he moving slowly in his black skin, me moving even slower in my old white skin, dragged ourselves last evening the six or seven blocks, mostly shaded, until I unclip his lead at the edge of the park.
People are picnicking on the grass in the shade of a few big cottonwoods and Pip heads there first, hoping for a tasty handout. That doesn’t happen but because of his manifestly benign and pacific nature he always overcomes the prejudice against Pit Bulls—called Nanny Dogs in England for generations–and gets a pat and a cheerful word. Finally he tears himself away and heads down to the river.
The bank is steep and he is old and stiff but he finds a way down and plunges into about a foot of cool water, flowing rapidly from the not yet depleted reservoir. Glancing back at me for reassurance, he soaks, drinks and splashes before moving on to eating the weeds along the bank which must taste especially sweet.
Finally I am able to call him in a serious tone and he scrambles out and goes in search of sustenance in the rest of the park.
As I sit on a bench in the shade waiting for him, I see a group of eight young people working at pegging the outline of a big square and digging in two posts for a net.
They are getting ready to play volleyball, a group of old friends, maybe once high school classmates: seven young men, one young woman.
She catches my eye immediately, dressed in black exercise clothes, her hair chastely bound back, no trace of makeup I can see. She is moving quietly in this crowd of joking and shouting young men.
As I watch, they begin to play, and I notice that all of them are competent, having probably played this game for years.
When it’s the young woman’s turn to serve, she catches the big white ball and tucks it under her right arm while moving toward the service line. She steps into position carefully, takes the ball in her right hand, tosses it up and slaps it powerfully across the net.
As she continues her powerful serve—her whacks resonate in the hot thick air—I notice how quietly and calmly she moves. She doesn’t seem to be soliciting admiration or even attention—and in fact the young men are curiously quiet as she serves, no clapping or compliments. I sense that both would be unwelcome.
She moves effortlessly. She doesn’t appear to sweat.
Pip comes back, I snap his leash on, and we head home for dinner. But in the midst of problems aggravated by the heat, I promise myself to remember this young woman, so calm and contained, succeeding without question in a world of young men.
And Pip, plunging into the river.
The attention, the noticing, is restorative and reminds me how pausing can change state of mind. Thank you.