Beauty Is Only a Light Switch Away
I was gob smacked, but in a curious way.
“What did you say?”
He repeated it. “Beauty is only a light switch away.”
I was gob smacked, but in a curious way. I had never heard the saying, and sitting amongst a group primarily of males I understood it for what it was. But the statement was also brilliant in its own right.
(Yes, there was a try at a pun in there.)
“Hold on, I need to text myself what you just said.”
The rest of the people at the restaurant’s table looked at me. Whispers went across the table, “She’s really writing it down.”
“Well if you like that one I got a whole boatload of them.”
I actually wanted to switch seats with the people to my left just so I could jot down each one of his sayings.
“What is it you do?” He asked.
“I’m a writer. I can imagine a book in the future with a character that talks like you do.”
“Well then, you need to sit next to the dugout if you want to hear all the things I have to say.” That got a lot of laughs all around.
And that’s how it goes sometimes. Life is where the ideas come from. It might be an individual’s sparkly eyes, or their humbled grin, or the way they hang their head and eyes when you speak with them. It could be their soft voice or their boastful confidence. It could be their sheer will and determination. Ideas come from everywhere.
I attended a 30 years and up baseball tournament. The players limped out of the training room following the games with ice bags taped across their knees, elbows, and biceps. They shared the ibuprofen bottle and tiger balm before the game. Wrapping tape in various colors dotted the landscape of body parts that had seen better days.
I saw one man leave the field after sliding into third with a dislocated finger re-enter 10 minutes later.
I think the trainers got more of a workout than the players. As the heroic wannabe MLBers visited the professionals to be stretched out, they boastfully exclaimed to each other, “What, you didn’t go in the ice bath?”
Yet each one of them had a smile on their face, and clarity in their eyes, that even through the pain and aches, there was no place that they’d rather be.
There were back slaps, ribald ribbing, cajoling, shit grins, and surprised faces, as they actually caught a ball that seemed out of their reach. Unfortunately, there were a couple of thrown bats and helmets, and a couple of pouts similar to Little League antics that they never outgrew, but overall it was a joyful experience, a competitive experience, a place where dreams come to life and friendships are forged on the playing field.
I go to ball games because it’s what I always did. As a child I walked my younger brother to the Little League field. As a middle schooler, I played on the girls softball team. After high school I joined a women’s softball league. When I got married, and we moved overseas because of my husband‘s Air Force service, I joined the wive’s softball league. I watched him pitch on base. As we had children, I took them to Little League or Babe Ruth or high school teams.
Even now I will hop on a plane and plan a week where my son has six adult men’s games happening and go to each of those games.
Baseball is Life.
When I met my husband, after a night of dancing, he stopped at a vending machine. I thought he was going to buy gum to have fresh breath for our first kiss. He did buy gum, but it was in a wax pack of baseball cards.
Since my husband’s passing and having an empty nest, it’s been a bit of a lonely life. He was the social butterfly, and I was the tagalong.
I have found, if one is sad, lonely, or depressed, and chooses to sit inside their house or apartment, and rather than get out there into the big wide world, chooses instead to follow social media and watch television- they miss out on the good things in life, the things that make you laugh, the things that make you question your beliefs, the things that make you realize how lucky you are as compared to others.
And somewhere in this mix, we do find we contribute to the joy and well-being of others. We find ways to be of service. Our abilities become tools for others if we allow it.
At the tournament, I really admired these men for trying, even though their bodies had been worn out by decades of use. I admired the fact that they got up and out of the house, put on their uniforms, and tried.
“The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself in a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat.” — Theodore Roosevelt
I want to be more like these individuals. In widowhood it is easy to cower and hide. It is easy to stay lonely. It is easy to wish or blame others for not seeking us out.
What I have found is, it’s my job to make me happy. It is my job to venture out even though I am scared. It is my job to reinvent my life. It is my job to check off my bucket list.
And if I’m really lucky, I will find some like-minded people on my team where we can all go and stir up the dust together.
It is my job to turn on the light switch to see the world for what it is and find all of its beauty.
