“I grew used to the water in stages and then fell in love with it…” – Julia Armfield, ‘Our Wives Under The Sea’
Honestly incredible, the restraint I’ve shown by not writing this until now.
I grew up a river monster. Behind my parents’ house, there’s some woods, then a river. Behind all my friends’ houses was a creek, it’s not like the problem was contained at home. I was rarely not soaked, sediment and grass sticking to my leg hairs. “Going to play in the river,” I’d say to my mom before disappearing into the woods.
I grew up playing sports—I am not a writer who had notebooks full of adventures as a kid, I am a writer because I did not grow to 6’6”. I started on soccer and baseball, my dad played a lot of tennis, we were always throwing a football around. But basketball? You can play basketball by yourself. Even if your dad’s at work and your friends can’t hang and your brother’s more into violin, you can shoot hoops.
It’s lucky, growing up on a river. Murfreesboro—somehow, despite all the Republicans there—has made great public use out of the Stones River. There’s a 10(?)-mile long walk/bike path, The Greenway, and it’s got public playgrounds and parks and fishing docks lining it. One time, my parents were out running when they saw four human heads bobbing in the river water, covered in mud and river grass. Turns out, it was just their kid and his friends, playing “river monster.”
Is the fourth paragraph a good time to say I don’t think I’m all that great at kayaking? That river was only more than four feet deep after it rained, and now I almost exclusively kayak in the shallows of Lake Michigan. Well, I didn’t make my middle school basketball team, either. Being good is hardly the point. Most of life would be embarrassing if you honestly cared about being really good at everything you do.
The meditative aspect of shooting hoops alone—how would I do in the 3-point contest? Can I hit 10 straight free throws? Michael Jordan just passed me the ball with five seconds left in regulation, will I win the championship?—feels akin to what my brain’s doing in the kayak. My arms are working, heart’s pumping, I’m setting mini goals for myself. Whatever the weather is doing—hot and humid, windy, clear as a polished window—I’m totally connected to the environment. No sound, or at least every sound feels far. At some point, I slip outside of time.
Sorry you got an email,
Chris