I have no talent with words. That’s the best part.

I was born with way above eye-hand coordination. I take no credit for it. I was also born with no foot speed. My first coach told me that I ran to first like “I was pushing a wheelbarrow.”

I could throw. Baseballs. Footballs. I could shoot basketballs. I bought one in a thrift shop today. An old leather one. I’m going to shoot again.

I could set Volleyballs. They went exactly where I wanted them to. I found joy in putting them in precisely the right spot to be exploded at the opponent. I loved that. I loved that. Pass, Set, explosion. I was the “set” part.

I also loved putting footballs where they could be caught. It was my talent and I practiced and practiced and practiced.

In the 8th grade, my teacher put a blank piece of paper on the desk in front of me. All I felt was panic. I brought home a sketch I did in 8th grade Art class. It was graded a “D.” My mother said, “Oh, you can’t draw, just like me.”

Crushing. Never do that to your child.

Some years ago, I decided to draw. 90 drawings in 90 days. I posted them daily on an art blog. I wanted to lose my fear.

Now I paint.

And I write.

I started writing a WordPress Blog to create a diary for my daughters to have when I’m gone. Then I started hiking and it became a travel log. Then I was held up a gunpoint in Cape Town and it became recovery.

I will keep writing. I’m not sure that I will write anything, that will mean anything, to anyone. I hope so, but it’s not the important part.

The important part is…

I have no idea what the important part is. That was one of those “wrap it up” thoughts. I’m tired.

Wrapping it up. Now. Back to watching Roland Garros.

I was way too slow for tennis.

3/4s In

Hmmmm. Did I already wrote all this before? I’m 74. 🙃