Sauntering On

On August 21, I wrote about the many activities I have given up because I can no longer do them. I ended that reflection with:

I am grateful for what I have been able to do, and I am curious about what comes next.

What came next was an attempt at pickleball.

I knew running was beyond my ability. But perhaps pickleball? It is played on a small court. You don't have to move that much. Maybe I could do it.

I knew, when I accepted the invitation, that it was questionable. I accepted because I was interested in becoming friends with the person who invited me. Pickleball is a passion of hers.

I was greeted and welcomed with exceptional warmth. I wanted it to work.

I knew during my first attempt at playing that it wasn't going to work. I could feel that a fall was inevitable.

If I would have played a few minutes more, I would have fallen. I felt the loss—big time.

That surprised me. I hadn't felt such a profound sense of loss with the other activities I had given up. Perhaps that is because pickleball was different. I had never played it before, nor had I ever had a great desire to play it.

What I was grieving was the possibility of playing with the person who invited me—and with the friendly people I had met around the court. It wasn't really about pickleball. It was about connection and the possibility of something new.

Almost immediately, I revisited Henry David Thoreau's Walking.

I know my present activity of choice: sauntering.

Noticing. Exploring. Capturing the beauty of nature with my camera.

Me thinks I can do that without falling down.

Well, perhaps.

The paths just need to be a little smoother than the root- and rock-strewn forest floors I once happily walked.

Sauntering Southwest