Clans (Summer Solstice 2014)

Clans - a reading (on YouTube)

Every four years at the summer solstice, world clans gather in a friendly competition. They huddle beneath banners bearing symbols like heraldic devices: Three Lions, Black Stars, Super Eagles, the Red Fury, the Samurai Blue.

The games are like a quadrennial family reunion where some years one clan makes it, some years another but always the same perennial core. Some clans bring only a small contingent, some are downright massive. We recognize many of the same players, the same coaches, sometimes the same fans. There are fresh faces mixed in among the familiar. In the interim, a venerable handful have gone missing while a few noted mercenaries have switched allegiances entirely.

Each clan has its own tradition. Europeans sing, South Americans drum and whistle, Africans dance while warlocks throw magic on the field. Our native contingent prefers to chant. But they all don brightly-colored party clothes and smile for the camera whenever one pans by.

Most Americans don’t understand this clannishness. I do. Clans provide a sense of the familiar in a strange new world. Their presence comforts us so far away from home. More importantly, should someone throw a road flare (as they sometimes do), these are the people who will guard your back.

We have an instinctive need to identify the people we know and know that we can trust. We mark each other to set ourselves apart. Totems and tribal colors form a secret language shared only by the select.

We are creatures drawn to symbolism. We festoon ourselves with ornaments and trinkets, shiny baubles, items imbued with meaning only to ourselves and the ones who know us best. We adorn ourselves in these emblems to express our ancestry and individuality all at once.

My mother’s family collects such symbols spanning at least three generations. From a young age, we were each encouraged to choose our totem, the marker of who we are. For our matriarch it was elephants. For my aunt and my mother, teddy bears and whales. For me, it alternated between wolves and dragons. Owls, angels, mushrooms, musical notes, cats and hearts could all be found scattered throughout the family field.

This was an enforced pattern of behavior, the family marking us with its brand. If you did not pick a symbol, one would be chosen for you. Your choice needn’t be permanent. You were allowed to change, though not too often. As long as you didn’t choose nonparticipation. Then a default choice would be reinstated based on what the others thought suited you best.

We made our choices carefully. Our chosen symbol would decorate our bookshelves and bedroom walls. These were the gifts we would receive for the rest our lives. It’s the way that we relate, the shorthand by which the rest of the family could identify and interact. I can’t help but remember my grandmother when I see any representation of an elephant. I can’t help but think of my aunt and cousin when I see a teddy bear or Winnie-the-Pooh.

I’m not a natural collector. I’m quite particular in my taste in symbols. Nothing too cute or with too much popular appeal. I don’t even logos visible on my clothes. Though I must admit that when I was growing up and Izod shirts were all the rage, one department store countered the alligator with an off-brand dragon. I couldn’t wear those shirts enough, in a semi-ironic, pre-hipster, fantasy counter-culture kind of way.

At this stage of my life, the only symbols I collect are griffins. They capture the three distinct facets of my clan: family, tribe, and individual. It is the device that graces my father’s family crest, though only one uncle ever paid much attention to it. It is a lesser known symbol of our Welsh heritage. I was drawn as much by that as the creature’s fantasy nature. It also serves as the banner of my brand.

Griffins are notoriously hard to come by in this country. To my knowledge, no one prints a griffin calendar. I’ve never seen any stuffed toys. I’ve haven’t run across any foreign coins or jewelry. Even pewter figurines with any decent artistry are difficult to find. Most of the griffins in my office were custom-made: a banner, a pair of stained glass bookends, a leather notebook and paperback cover, a ceramic tile. All but the last were made by my wife. Some date back from our time in college. Since we’ve been married, she identifies the symbol as another aspect of her heritage just as she adopted my surname as her own.

Clans, by nature and necessity, are exogamous, taking in through marriage only with outsiders. But once those strangers don our tartan, they become accepted as one of us. That doesn’t mean they have abandoned their connections to their first families. Our clan just becomes another face on their polyhedron die. Another charm on their mental Pandora bracelet.

So, if you catch even a glimpse of a game crowd this summer from the corner of your eye, remember that web of diversified acceptance. If you’re lucky, you might witness a Brazilian samba band drum and whistle their way through an entire match. Or watch the tribal-clad women from the Ivory Coast dance and sway in unison, then turn to shake their backsides toward the field as a taunt. Or hear thousands of voices spontaneously erupt in a chorus of La Marseillaise or Rule, Britannia. Or see the players weep openly as the stadium plays their national anthem. For many, this is the only positive recognition their country will ever get.

Some say Americans learn geography only through our wars. If so, the rest of the world learns theirs from the clans attending the beautiful game. As we bask in the light of the summer solstice, which would you say provides a better model on the world stage?


© 2014 Edward P. Morgan III

Summer Solstice 2010

Summer Solstice 2010 - a reading (on YouTube)

It is winter in the Southern Hemisphere. The crescent moon tilts in the wrong direction, a shallow bowl whose water spills as moonlight across the plain at night.

Clans gather beneath an evening star, its golden torchlight guiding them through the long, dark journey back to summer. There are new shields and some long lost emblems interspersed with standards present from the beginning, sigils as immemorial as time. Totem animals adorn each tent, lions, elephants and eagles, pegasi and dragons, guiding spirits their people pray to through the night as they invoke the numen of their ancestors. They all celebrate in tribal colors, in dance as well as song.

The battle horns have sounded, drawing each clan's iconic warriors onto the field to engage in ritual combat. Their feet flash like lightning off a spear point, their footfalls echo like thunder across the plain. While their prophets murmur each name like a touchstone, the clans draw comfort from the repetition as the battle performs its rosary across the field. Veterans will fall as fresh, young warriors fill the gaps and are lifted onto the shoulders of their companions, paraded around the field.

While only one will lift their voice in victory, for a moment all the clans stand together, united beneath that distant star. Ubuntu: there can be no lauded victor without a host of the honorably defeated.

Slowly, the orange and blue, the furious reds, greens and golds will wash away into a savanna sunrise, the quadrennial danse macabre suspended for four more peaceful years. Until the battle horns sound again and recall those far-flung clans to another field half a world away to celebrate a summer festival beneath a winter's moon.

© 2010 Edward P. Morgan III

Witnessing History

There is no joy in Boston; the mighty Nation has struck out.

Full disclosure: I am not a baseball fan. I played one year of Little League when I was six. You would have spotted me immediately, the one in right field, drifting off in his own little world to alleviate the boredom. My father could only hang his head in shame. When I was ten, my grandfather took me to a game at Fenway. A diehard fan, he tried to kindle the spirit within me, but only managed to water the seed of Boston losing. For twenty-five years, that was the only game I'd ever seen, the only one I ever needed to. Sure, I'd watch Boston in the playoffs, expecting heartbreak or worse. Until 2004, I wasn't disappointed.

Karen, on the other hand, is a dyed in wool fan. In high school, she and her friend used to score Red Sox games off the radio. Obviously, she grew up in a small town in western Mass. where there wasn't much else to do when the grass wasn't growing and there wasn't paint to dry. She crochets during games on TV now, while I am forced to watch or abandon them and read. When she travels, she tunes into games she wouldn't ordinarily see; she doesn't care who's playing.

When St. Petersburg expanded with the Devil Rays, she dragged me to a few games. I couldn't even tell you who they played. The Reds? The Royals? The Orioles? After a game we went to last year, I said to her, I think I'd only go back to see the Rays play Boston. When we saw the opening game this year, I amended that. Did I say when the Rays play Boston? I meant when the Rays play Boston in the playoffs. I figured that was a safe bet that would hold me for a hundred years.

So how did I end up at game 7 of the ALCS? It pays to have friends. Or, in my case, to have married someone who does.

Yesterday started with plans for the day, cooking in the morning, reading and napping in the afternoon. I needed a haircut. Had I known what was coming, it would have been a mohawk. At least a back-hawk in my case. In the evening, we planned to watch both of Tampa Bay's games, the Rays and the Bucs, football and baseball, picture in picture, in head to head competition across the dial. The only decision was which one to watch on the small screen and which one on the smaller.

Then, the call came from our friend and neighbor up the road. She started life as a Brewers fan, so we were somewhat kindred spirits. Though we haven't quite convinced her to embrace her inner Buccaneer as yet. That's a work in progress. (And now I know I will never see another ticket in my life, even to a minor league game in Guatemala). She scored tickets through the lottery, and had some extras. Would we like to go? Let me pass the phone to Karen, who proceeded to beat me about the head and shoulders for not immediately saying, YES!

First thing I did was call my aunt in Braintree. She's an old Boston Braves fan, so had been rooting for the Rays from the onset, even before the All-Star break, even when we went to Boston for the final, regular series. When I told her we were going to the game, the first thing she asked was if I had gotten her tickets. I'm convinced that had I told I had four, she and her husband would have been at Logan lining up a flight as soon as a cab could have gotten them there. But, alas, there were only two. She anointed me her good luck charm and sent me out to win.

The next thing we did was head out to Sports Authority and buy some Rays paraphernalia. Karen had converted her loyalties to the Devil Rays when they first appeared. Until this year, she'd had the luxury of rooting for both teams, except when they met, and even then she could hedge her bets. But the only marker she had was an original Devil Rays pin. So she bought us a couple caps, just to make our loyalties clear. And for those who think she might be a fair weather fan, she listened to the early Rays games on the radio while crafting stained glass in the garage. And we actually have more to do down here than watch rust spread across our cars.

Did I mention I'm not a fan? Ok, that was before I saw the light, even if was only the blinding light of a baseball drifting toward light-banks ringing the catwalks in our dome. Now that I've entered the temple and been indoctrinated with the high mass, there's no turning back.

Driving toward stadium, we saw the signs for parking escalate like bids at an auction. $10, $15, do I hear $20? The official lots are full. Sold for $30 to the lot across the street. We passed them all by and parked where Karen works a mile out, and headed for the field. About halfway there, people started gathering like runoff from a hard rain that forms rivulets then a stream and finally a mighty river, some fifty thousand strong. The Sox were well supported but didn't outnumber the Rays fans for a change. Unlike the Fenway Faithful, the Rays fans were laid back, grilling, joking, milling about the parking lot. There was no real tension after the disaster of game 5, or the disappointment of game 6.

We met our friend outside the main gate. She inspected Karen closely for any evidence of red, however well hidden, ready to raise the price or scalp her ticket if she found even a hint of it except her hair. Blue shirt, blue jeans, Rays hat, Rays pin; she was clean. A quick exchange of cash for tickets and we were in. She had gotten two blocks of four seats. We wouldn't be together, she, her fiancée and another couple would be in one block, us and a couple we hadn't met in another, just outside the foul pole on the first base line, about 30 rows up, with a perfect view of the Rays' bullpen.

We got to our seats an hour early. The section was half empty. The Red Sox were at batting practice. When the groundskeepers pulled the screens when they finished, a chorus of boo's echoed around the stadium. Apparently, the Red Sox Nation had instructed the our fans on proper etiquette for greeting an opposing team. A cheer went up when Tampa Bay took the field for their final warm-ups. We watched our pitcher, Garza. He seemed relaxed, as though it was just another start. The outfielders looked unconcerned, not too loose and joking with the crowd, but not intimidated either. Confident, not cocky or cowed.

By eight, our section had filled. We looked at the people around us, all Rays fans, a good initial sign. The four of us started glancing around tentatively, trying to make those eye-contact connections with total strangers with whom you will spend the next four or five hours of your life. The man and his wife who was legally blind, the guy and his buddy completely into the game, the father and his teenage daughter directly in front of us, the woman with her husband and son on the other side of me, the older couple behind us. We were all uncertain at first, unsure whether our support of the Rays was enough to link us. Then the unifying factor appeared behind us.

No, not card carrying members of the Red Sox Nation, not the Fenway Faithful on a holiday from the arctic cold. These were a pair of uber-Rays fans, a cross between Braveheart and Bozo the Clown, blue and white face paint, neon blue wigs, white sunglasses, and horns, drunk as skunks pillaging the cider mash. Did I mention the horns? I can still hear them rattling my right eardrum. All game long, whomever was batting, us or them, whether appropriate or not, like off-key trumpeters at a Roman gladiatorial game.

They started by hitting on the forty year-old woman with her husband beside me as though she were twenty-five, ringing her neck in plastic flowers and telling her she'd been "lei'ed." "Was it as satisfying for you?" That was all it took. Our loose confederation was now a section, our collective attention directed at wishing those horns would silence and that pair would go away.

The stadium announcer asked us to make some noise as TV coverage began. The meter spiked to somewhere between an amplified guitar a foot away at full volume and a plane on an airport runway, all cheers and cowbells, clapping and horns. Ok, for that moment, we were glad to have the horns. The feeling wouldn't return until the end of the game. The stage was set, the curtain rising, the occupants of the erstwhile Thunderdome ready for a classic confrontation: Two teams enter, one team leaves.

Our enthusiasm was silenced in the first inning when Boston's second batter smacked a solo homerun into the crowd beyond the left field wall. The Red Sox fans couldn't resist standing up and waving the crowd to silence as though the outcome were pre-ordained, a move at least one of them would come regret several innings later. The homer was followed by a walk. It beginning to look like a long night. But we escaped the inning without any crooked numbers. At least there was solace in that.

For the first three innings, our batters looked much like they had the previous game, so focused on knocking one out of the park that they forgot everything starts with a base hit. Still, we slowly regained our exuberance, rising to our feet and cheering each time a Boston batter garnered a pair of strikes. I haven't done so much standing and sitting since the last time I was at a Catholic service. There was even some praying, though most of what I heard was for the guys behind us not to spill their beers or hurl. Those damned horns kept blaring, one in my left ear, one in my right. The rows in front of us kept glancing back with an combination of annoyance and pity. One guy tried to buy the horns off of them for a couple beers apiece. They thought about that one a moment, but declined. Another whispered they only had an inning or two left in them before one of them passed out. Midway through the third, one of the guys came crashing down between me and the woman next to me, fortunately without his beer. "I fell down," was all he could think to say as we levered him back up.

I just focused on my Zen, like Garza, concentrating on one pitch at a time. For a shaky start, he kept racking up the K's. One an inning, sometimes two. By the end of his night, nine were on the board.

Things turned our way in the fourth. Between innings, a Rays fan with a Boston accent came over and offered the smurf brothers a quick $20. All they had to do was go up one section to where a Boston fan was sitting by his "daughta" and blast them for a full inning. Someone else would come and show them exactly where. A Jackson flashed and quickly disappeared into one of the conspirator's blue pockets, then these two marched off like a Sousa band redone in plastic, men on a mission. Had we known it was that easy, we would have taken up a collection. Later we almost did.

Turns out that was probably the best $20 this guy ever spent. We kept one eye on the game, and the other on our reluctantly adopted cohorts. There they were, two sections back, right on the foul line, blazing away at a couple of red shirts, who at least initially seemed to take it well. Then the Rays started chipping at Boston. Iwamura singled, then Pena on a fielder's choice, sacrificing Iwamura instead of himself. But Longoria whacked a double into right, bring home our first run. We are all up and high-fiving, building the bonds of camaraderie with our neighbors. Boston hasn't had much to cheer about in a while.

The boys in blue and white keep earning their pay, blowing their horns through the entire fifth on spec. The Boston fans still seemed to be taking it well, chatting with them between innings. Then came the bottom of the fifth. Aybar singled, Baldelli drove him in. Two more on base and it looked like Boston's pitcher was breaking. Francona took a trip out to the mound, but thankfully left him in. He escaped the inning without further damage.

In the top of the sixth, we glance back toward the two-man horn section in time to see security swarming toward the Boston fans like a herd of angry bulls to a red cape. Who knows what happened, other than Boston started losing. One guy decides to take swing at the security guard. The St. Pete cop backing him up set a hand on security's shoulder and shakes his head. He makes a quick gesture to a monster in security blue one row down who distracts the Boston fan while the cop moves in. Next thing we see is red-shirt Boston emerge in handcuffs doing the walk of shame toward a far exit. His friend fades away with him. We relax, thinking our trumpeters have just scored prime seats for the duration. Apparently the Rays relaxed, too, with a lackluster sixth and a low pitch count retirement of the heart of our order. Not what we needed to continue Lester's slide.

Top of the seventh and our frat boys returned triumphantly, hovering in their seats briefly before taking a victory lap around the nearby sections. Garza starts fraying at the edges but gets out of the inning unscathed. Our mascots settle just as we come up to bat. Now people are shaking their heads and rolling their eyes. The guy in front of me who was betting they would fade in the fifth takes it back, saying they are thoroughbreds much to his surprise. With no Boston targets in sight, they start in on a Pittsburg Steelers shirt two rows down. We ignore them and pay attention to the task at hand. Aybar homers to left on a full count. Everyone rises to their feet. Cow bells are ringing, horns are blaring, people are screaming and chipping the railing paint as they pound anything handy against it like a drum.

The tensest moments come in the 8th. Boston up with one out, and Maddon is going through relief pitchers like a fan through a bag peanuts. They advance man after man. One of our would-be Bravehearts passes out and lands on the older couple behind us. They prop him back up one last time. We spend the inning on our feet, which turns into the remainder of the game. Boston loads the bases. It's looking like a repeat of Thursday night only with less of a cushion. The guys behind us start doing beer bongs through their horns. The girl in front of us gives up on standing and starts texting on her phone. But we get out of it, how I'll never know. That's when we get the inkling that winning is a possibility.

Mid-inning, and I look up to see 11:11 on the scoreboard clock. There's a free wish for you superstitious, baseball types. You know what I was thinking. Karen gets "lei'ed" from behind with blue plastic flowers in the form of an apology from one of our aspirant Viking twins for clocking her with his horn. This after the couple we were with had stolen the horn's bell briefly before giving it back "this time" as he blew it in her ear. By now, no one cares about their antics. We are on the brink of history and they are one of us, horns, obnoxiousness and all. Our batters do nothing to advance our cause.

It all comes down to Boston in the ninth. Everyone is on their feet, cheering every strike as though it were the final out. A lead-off walk does nothing to deter us. The Rays are relaxed, doing their jobs. Victory is in the air. One out accompanied by cheers and high-fives, then two. It begins to feel inevitable. A hit toward our second baseman who tags second and the place erupts. The red of Boston trickles out, bleeding toward the exits. We hang around cheering until a round of handshakes with some of our newfound friends who then head off to find cigars. When I turn to the older couple behind us, he high-fives me and says, "we survived them," pointing to where our face-painted pair had disappeared.

And our two mascots? He and his buddy were bragging all night that they have to be at work at seven a.m. I'm betting they are having a long, cruel morning. Though I bet they say it's worth it.

The walk back to the car was briefly tense when a Boston fan didn't know when to shut up, and one of our larger fans was just drunk enough to make him, held back only by his smaller friend steering him away. Not good losers, this Red Sox Nation. At the corner, the firemen are all outside by the engines waiting for what they know is coming. There are cruisers strobed in red and blue at every intersection. The mostly mildly celebratory crowd peels off in threes and fours toward their vehicles. Alone now, we pass a knot of Fenway Faithful hanging by their trucks, but they seem more interested in analysis and commiseration than in us. The last person we pass is a local woman walking toward us who spots our hats and starts a celebration, for both the Rays and the Bucs, who also won that night.

We make it back to the car without incident. At every red light on the way home we are serenaded by car horns and cow bells as St. Petersburg celebrates its first pennant and its first trip to the series.

Of all the playoff games to see, I think this was perhaps the best. We knew something would be decided, and yet had more potential victories to look forward to if we won rather than the mild tinge of regret that accompanies knowing that it's over even with a victory. We're all smiles this morning knowing we have more to come.

It's still hard to believe it was not the Yankees, not the Indians, but the Rays who ended the Red Sox's comeback streak. Ok, Boston fans, I know you remember the line from years of repetition. Repeat after me: Maybe next year.

I kid because I love. Any other year and we would say the same.

Who knew baseball could be so much fun.


© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III

Rebalancing

Karen and I have started doing yoga again in the evenings. It has been pleasant to get back to reintegrating mind with body after the buffeting storm of the previous year. While my mind is willing, my body protests the increased activity in a way it hasn't for many, many years. Some of you may think that stretching and holding a position, posturing and posing, couldn't be much of a workout. It is. At least, it can be if you remember to breathe.

The instructor of the program we watch is about our age, perhaps a few years younger, and more flexible than any man has a right to be. Watching him run through the positions with such ease reminds me of my fencing instructor from college.

During the spring quarter of my freshmen year, the electrical engineering curriculum gave us our first and only free elective. I'd always been intrigued by fencing, so I thought I'd give it a try. My roommate, a stoner from somewhere in middle Tennessee who wouldn't return after the summer, also ended up in the class wanting something more physically than mentally challenging for a few hours each week.

The first day there were a couple dozen of us, all guys, all between 18 and 20. Going in most of us thought we were in fairly decent shape. And we all had the same visions of fencing, dashing swordplay and Errol Flynn.

The instructor soon disabused us of these notions. She was short with blond hair dulled by gray and had a rich, Slavic accent. Her name was Sophie. No last name, no "coach," just Sophie. The introduction seemed reassuring, all very low key and relaxed. Believing the class would follow that example was our first mistake. We found out later that Sophie had been on the Polish national fencing team in the Olympics when she was younger. We also learned that she was fifty, mostly from her taunts.

For the first week, all Sophie did was try to get us into something she thought resembled reasonable shape. While we thought of ourselves as sturdy oaks, she saw us as shallow-rooted palms easily toppled in the wind.

She started with wind-sprints across the width of the gym, one quarter, touch, one half, touch, three quarters, touch, bleacher to bleacher, touch, then the reverse as fast as we could. When she thought we were not giving our all (which was most of the time), she would run beside us, sprinting faster, tagging deeper, pivoting quicker than any of us ever could, and taunting us the entire time about being teenagers outrun by a fifty year-old woman. Most of us were amazed that she could harangue us while outdistancing us and never sound winded. When she was particularly disgusted with our progress, she would run backwards in front of us, daring us to catch up.

For a break, she would have us assume a fencing position and heal-toe our way across the floor. For those who don't know, the fencing position consists of putting your feet about shoulder distance apart, right foot and leg facing forward and bent at the knee so your shin is perpendicular to the floor and your thigh is at about a 45 degree angle. Your left foot and leg are pointed to the side at a 90 degree angle with your thigh bent at about 45 degrees, but your heel beneath you. Ideally, this gives a very stable distribution to your weight, a balance point where you can move either forward or backwards with equal ease. You extend your right arm almost all the way out with your elbow pointing to the side and slightly bent, your wrist loose. Your left trails out behind and is hooked slightly above your head. Your chest is in profile toward your opponent to give a smaller target.

Once you have that posture set in your mind, picture moving your right heel up to where your right toes are with all your weight on your left foot. Plant it and accept your weight then move your left foot up about the same distance, keeping it pointed to the side, all with your knees bent and arms out. Distinct steps, don't drag or shuffle either foot. Pivot and rock like a teeter-totter moving forward on bent legs. Got that?

Get up and try it, right now, even for a few steps. I would join you but my left knee sounds like a pepper mill when I do it. Your thighs will burn within the first five steps if you are doing it right. Ok, now imagine doing that forward and backward across the entire width of a college gym, changing direction at random for twenty minutes.

After that we practiced the lunges. If I thought my thighs were smoldering before, now they needed a fire extinguisher. By the end of forty-five minutes, my arms felt as though someone had injected them with molten lead. My breath came in ragged gasps despite being told that, like in yoga, I needed to control it. It took me the day between classes just to recover enough to do it again. All this before we touched any equipment. If you are thinking "wax on, wax off," you have the right idea. I don't think we picked up a foil or donned a mask until two weeks into the course.

By then my roommate, who was broader shouldered and more muscular than I was, had dropped out. His southern male ego couldn't take being harassed by someone thirty years his senior and in better shape, a woman no less. At least that's what he told me when he stopped showing up for class. But he wasn't the only one. By the end of the first two weeks, we were down to about half our original number. Most of those who left had started in better shape than I had. If I learned one thing from Sophie, it was that it's not always the strongest who survive.

I still remember most of the exercises, parry 2, parry 4, parry 6, parry 8, all different positions to divert an incoming foil. And the routines, beat, attack, parry, lunge, riposte. Always maintain your distance even if you have to pull your chest concave from your shoulders to do so. Never drop your guard. Valuable lessons on or off the line.

Once I learned the techniques and positions, there was a detached balance between mind and body, almost a meditation on the line. Fencing, like yoga, is a discipline. If you have ever watched a match, points are scored in a blur, often too quick for the eye to follow. You can't react on the line. If you think about what you intend to do, it will be too late. You act without thinking, without allowing your mind to become distracted by your opponent or yourself. To do that, you have to breathe and live in each moment completely. Another lesson I carried with me, perhaps more practical than the rest.

The balance in yoga is more like everything in middle age, slower and more measured. Each night, we run through routines with names like the sun salutation, up and down dog, the warrior, the bow. I think a lot about Sophie as my shoulders shake while I try to balance sideways on one hand with my legs rigid and my other arm sticking straight into the air, like a cross resting on its base and one arm. The trouble is I'm no longer 19 so what the mind envisions, the body can't always execute with the grace it imagines. But it's beginning to remember despite the protests.

At the end of each session we assume a final position to cool down and center. As I lay there, I begin to feel a little better grounded, like a tree sinking its roots into the earth. I feel reintegrated and rebalanced in a way that I haven't for many years. From the porch I hear the sound of the distant traffic that drifts through the leaves with the wind. The wind chimes strike a single note that resonates until it fades, then strikes another with the deliberateness of our breathing. There is a peace carried on the wind with those tones. Whether in motion or in stillness, I hope you find a moment to breathe and listen to its song.


© 2008 Edward P. Morgan III

Morgans 2, Ginger 1

Morgans 2, Ginger 1 - a reading (on YouTube)

And now, your sports update: In the final round of the best-of-three competition, the wild ginger in the Morgans' backyard has been eliminated from the tournament on aggregate, 2-1.

You may remember the quick growing vegetation scored an easy win in the first round of play by deploying an often seen but difficult to counter surprise "mold defense" effectively neutralizing half the Morgan team. With no substitutes available, they were forced to play shorthanded the remainder of the match. Wild ginger took a bit of a mauling, but nothing it couldn't recover from given time.

In round two the Morgans came in prepared and dug out the invasive weed's visible defense in a hard day's hacking and sawing. Though team Morgan tried to soften up team Ginger for the next match with their newly acquired striker, Roundup, the weedy herb shrugged off his spray of shots. But the Morgans held onto their early goal for an eventual, but not decisive victory.

In the weeks leading up to this final confrontation, both sides rested their key players. Team Ginger's training regimen included digging in under the six-inch gap between the chainlink and wood fencing bordering the pitch, possibly thinking it had found a home-field advantage having detected a weakness in the Morgans' previous attacks.

In round three both teams pulled out all the stops. Team Ginger hunkered down in a bunker defense, while team Morgan pondered their best strategy for an attack. The wild root deployed mildly effective carpenter ant midfield formation, followed by a quick counterattack from a ringer on loan from team Wolf Spider, sending half of team Morgan into her screaming wiggly dance (sometimes confused with her victory celebration). She toppled into the remaining Roundup, effectively sidelining him for the remainder of the game. By halftime, team Ginger had once again fended of countless shots from the Morgans' heavy-handed, ax-wielding strikers. Team Morgan seemed on the brink of collapse from exhaustion and the heat.

After what can only be described as an amazing motivational speech from their coach, team Morgan returned to the pitch reinvigorated and with a novel new strategy. Dropping back some 6000 years, they employed a formation that at first team Ginger didn't recognize but soon realized it couldn't counter unless team Morgan's fitness gave out once again in the noontime heat. But that was not to be. Hamstrung in its earlier attempt at digging in by the groundskeeper's overnight undercutting, the wild ginger could find little purchase on the pitch in the second half. Just before penalty kicks would have decided the final outcome, the Morgans' rediscovered formation (nicknamed "The Lever") finally carried the day.

Next up for team Morgan: a classic matchup with their cross-yard rival, team Sprinkler. This one promises to be a long, muddy slog of a campaign.

And that's your sports update.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III