I don't know how many of you are into sports, but I'm an avid tennis fan. I used to be a big football fan, but that waned with my marriage, as my hubby is more of a baseball fan. I love to watch a good game of baseball now when I wouldn't have thought of such a thing 30 years ago.
But tennis is my first love. I started playing when I was ten or twelve and managed to get on the high school junior varsity team in my freshman year. As a senior, when I moved to Utah , I didn't want to try out for a team that was unknown, so I stopped playing - sort of. Every now and again I pick up the racquet and remember how much I love playing this sport.
Since over the years I have gained some - uh - weight with my children, I'm not quite in the shape I was before I got married. Playing takes a little more effort, I'm not as accurate, I'm winded after just a couple of shots across court and my serve is not the ace maker it used to be. Some of the ladies in the neighborhood get together once a week to learn how to play, and I've joined them this month, determined to play again. Last week we got rained out, since the neighbor's court is made of clay and it's just not a good mix with water.
Yesterday I got to play for the first time in a year.
It's strange, because it occurred to me that this experience has been similar to some people's approach to writing. They did it a lot when they were younger, and then stopped for a season and are now attempting to pick up the threads of their thoughts from the past.
While I'm rusty at my game, and no one would have issues trying to beat me, I do have some skills. They are still there, just waiting for some warming up and reminding of the muscles. It takes practice, it takes time, and it takes effort.
Just like writing.
Everyone has a thought waiting to be printed, expressions waiting to be shown and stories wanting to get out. But, like in tennis, it doesn't go anywhere until you serve the ball.