P.E.

Sailhouse is like a parachute. It’s not quite the same material, but certainly close enough to catch the wind the same way. I fluff off pine needles constantly, mostly to watch the fabric fill and sigh. 
 
Of course I loved parachute day in P.E when I was barely three feet tall and catching ping pong balls was the epitome of svelte athleticism. I was the one who didn’t mind being in the middle of the confusing colors as they settled around my small frame. I suppose it was very womb like and in the age before weighted blankets became a classroom item, I was the kid needing isolation from external stimuli.
 
I returned to this concept several times throughout my adult years. I don’t suppose anyone else caught on to my behaviors because I barely admit them to myself, but hiding and being wrapped tightly are massive coping mechanisms for my daily existence. There’s reasons on both ends of the spectrum for this. Besides the deviance from games with rules and flying objects that always knocked off my glasses, parachute day reminded me of the spaces between spaces. Usually the gym floor and walls were all that was important during those 45 minutes. But sometimes, we craned our little necks up to watch the expansion of color only to be distracted by bugs caught in the light of the windows. I remember there was a balloon stuck on a ceiling fan for a long time up there. I had hoped I could be the one to scurry up the ropes and swing from beam to beam like Tarzan to release the ribbon. But one day it was just gone. 

Sailhouse brings to mind other aspects of P.E too. It casts a spell of endurance while glowing against the dark green pines. Sailhouse adapts to the circumstances of the day. It is like a goal post beckoning me through the woods. When I get there, I win. A little work every day makes for big accomplishments later. It also has a shadow effect when I realize I’m the one sitting on the bench. I’m the only one who showed up for practice. I’m here watching flocks of birds in the treetops instead of participating. But which side of the mirror am I really on, Alice? I think there are other people like me somewhere. I imagine desert dwellers in Africa. There must be one who just doesn’t want to sit with the others today. I consider pirates stuck on a boat for months. I watch members of my community sometimes. I notice who likes which chairs in the library. I think about what that reflects about their character. 
 
Quite possibly, everyone dreads P.E in some fashion. Even the ones who are coordinated and wear sweat like a medal have days they’d rather not change in front of others. They probably missed breakfast sometimes too. But I was the kid whose shirt got pulled from the back just as I might have landed a good kick on the soccer ball. I was the one who never got a basket. I managed to run my fingers over when we had little relay scooters. The thing people don’t realize, is that most of my confusion and clumsiness comes from performance anxiety. I’m really very strong and athletic when I’m alone. I wield tools and heft rocks easily when no one is watching. I cook, sing, play piano, garden, write, and hike all alone most days. Yes I raised kids. Yes they did these things with me. But they also saw me go off and do lots of things alone. They are all as independent as I which sometimes is bittersweet. 
 

I suppose I could have been encouraged to be an endurance runner or taken on some kind of field event like javelin throwing. There are niches to be found for individuals. But when a pile of fifth graders storm into a gymnasium, it’s all about the team. The pecking order of honest kids is fierce. 

People ask me how to find peace and I tell them it’s a practice. Peace doesn’t come in a box on a prescribed holiday. Peace comes slowly, with practice. Peace is the sure weight of a solidly caught ball, fitting snugly in my hand, connecting me to the events outside myself. Peace is the majesty of tossing it all up to the sky knowing I have mastered the skills and can evade the detritus.

I was always picked last if not outright assigned. Gym teachers don’t always know how to deal with kids like me. 
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So I’m mulling these lessons as they translate to adulthood. Who is on my team? What are the rules? What is the game? I lack training in so many ways. I do not have the stamina anymore. I won’t wear the uniform. I put myself on the bench because I’m tired of losing.

​All of this came to mind recently when I attended an event held at the school. The smells, the sounds, the way the shiny sticky line around the floor was just enough to interrupt a really good sock slide. But as the space filled with other people I started to see the trees in the forest. There was the person who went directly to the top back row of bleachers and sat against the wall, just like me. There was the guy hovering by the door like I did sometimes. There was the kid twirling in a sunbeam looking up at the ropes draped on the I-beams. If even one other person there remembered parachute day like I did, then I could cultivate an interest in Sailhouse. But who? Which one understands, craves, and feels the call?
 
After the day, while people file out to their cars, I commend myself for being so civilized. I wore my fancy shoes today! But I’m looking to kick them off ASAP so I can get my real shoes back on and get up the path. Makes me think about sports equipment and specialized shoes. A player wears them for the short performance, but most of the time is just waiting to suit up again. Competition is not in my nature, not beyond the basic sense of survival anyhow. Teamwork is also foreign. I was a latch key kid which translated to being a single parent. I can do it all by myself. Just don’t watch. 

I enjoy sending Sailhouse aloft like a parachute. I breathe in the rush of air and sigh as it settles. I know Sailhouse saved my life in many ways. I bundle it up metaphorically to carry with me. When I’m the last one in line or don’t know what might hit me next, I still have a sanctuary. It is the uniform I will wear. I show up for Sailhouse games. I’m very good at them now. 
 
People ask me how to find peace and I tell them it’s a practice. Peace doesn’t come in a box on a prescribed holiday. Peace comes slowly, with practice. Peace is the sure weight of a solidly caught ball, fitting snugly in my hand, connecting me to the events outside myself. Peace is the majesty of tossing it all up to the sky knowing I have mastered the skills and can evade the detritus. I may not have been on many teams or scored a lot of goals, but I’ve run the marathons. I am my own best coach and teammate. I am my own game with my own rules. I have come through the grueling training to receive the trophy of Sailhouse.