The Complex Trajectory

I've long enjoyed the elegance and simplicity of the game of catch. Two or more people position themselves at a distance from each other. That distance may be measured in feet in the early years. Later, the distance increases to a point where it is difficult to imagine that any one participant can successfully "deliver" the ball to the other or one of the other players -- if more than two players are on the field of play -- in such a manner that it can be caught by that other. Remember playing in the days of Summer in the 1950's with my neighbor. We would stand 70 or 80 feet apart and time after time manage to naturally choose a trajectory that would bring that ball just close enough to be caught. Grounders, Bloopers, Fastballs, Slowballs, Curveballs ... but almost always able to choose that trajectory that makes the ball catchable. Indeed, the game of catch is by design one in which the goal is to allow the other to "make the catch" ... maybe to make it a challenge ... but to catch it.

If only! If only life were as simple as finding that path through the sky or one that skips off the ground like a piece of shale on a quiet lake .... finding the trajectory that works to continue the natural flow of this game that can go on for hours ...

Life is very different than that. Oh, I know that a number of the traditions with which I'm familiar have an expression about how their God or gods don't put anything on their plate that they can't metabolize ... God never gives you more than you can handle, some say. But somewhere along the line, the play becomes far more complex than that elegant game of catch.

By the Last Quarter, we and our friends -- all! -- are struggling with their own messes. I sometimes imagine a "near and dear" or myself poised under a barrage of "incoming" balls arriving at all kinds of different angles and a variety of speeds. I never liked the word overwhelmed. After all, if I'm still poised to receive these "incoming" rockets with their red glare, I'm, arguably, not overwhelmed. Still, at times like this, I and others are looking for the pause button ... the "gimme a break" remote that slows the speed or diminishes the frequency.

Oh, and those messes by that Fourth Quarter are not solely our own. If we spawned earlier in life, our perfect little children are involved in their own complexities. They have relationships that have ended or have history.  They have children who are still in their First or Second Quarter, Parents who are in overtime or remain as haunting figures of met and unmet wishes. When our kids are young, we imagine them to be these perfect little reincarnations of ourselves. Ach du lieber ... Life is an unremitting teacher of the messiness of life, itself. Those perfect ones do, indeed, become real ... those idealized images suffer and, betimes, make others suffer. Viscera ... Guts ... Blood ... and a whole lotta feeling.

How I yen for a game of catch. Two gloves, two people, one ball and a parabolic trajectory of Divine design.

"Ronnie! Go deep .... I'll get it to you just past the foot of the Elm Tree ... but high ... may need to jump and reach for it at same time ... You'll get it, Ronnie ... Don't worry ... I'll make sure of that!"