Last New Years I balanced on a board on a log. Rolling shifts, little muscles in hips, all toes a part, woosh, shimmy, woah, teeter, humm. That kind of flight, hearthside, came easy in the company of Bhodi and his so-called pup, a yogi and her gnome.
A whole other thing is lifting up on waves. Trust beyond me. Ocean underneath ocean overhead. I’m a dancer but dang. What fitness, what coolness of mind. To me, surfing looks like listening well. To do it is to practice, from novice to pro. If you’re great, you speak in harmony with the room. Talk out of turn, ego your way, and be thrown. There’s no mommy in the master Mother Earth.
Similar laws apply in pool. Nothing changes the nature of things. Balls are round, table firm, pockets don’t move. The body is a barometer of its own divine. Bend of wrist, spine, eyes. A crooked cue managed by mind. Account, adjust, shoot. The game is governed in focus. When to strike, where to stand. Which foot is pressed, with what force. It’s mechanic-organic.
Years ago I took opponents blind. Lately I lose. What’s clear is my shift is not a loss of skill, but prowess.
Only place to regain that is in the wild.