Two doors down from pickleball
It’s a Thursday afternoon, the sun is shining, and you can find me at the RV park two doors down from the pickleball court. Can you see me? Look toward the ground, for two legs clad in Victoria’s Secret sweat pants sticking out from beneath a tall gray truck. Look for my striped socks and slide-on sandals. Classy, I know.
This is where Crash and I live, at least for a few more weeks. It’s a nice spot because each morning I am bathed in sounds of joy–laughter and cheers tucked between thwacks as pickleball players chase a green ball with their paddles across the painted court. Enjoyment seems so elusive these days, and it comforts me to know that I can witness it each morning as enthusiastic people show up with their gear to partake in the game.
By the time you find me under my truck, however, the pickleball court is empty. The excitement has transitioned two doors down, to my spot in the RV park.
What’s going on, you wonder? Two things.
First, I am installing steps on my truck. Steps are important because my truck is tall. Getting in and out of it can be a bit hazardous, and these steps have become a key part of my plan to living a long and healthy life.
Second, I am providing intrigue and entertainment to all of my RV park neighbors. The excitement has been building for two days, ever since I came back from the post office with very long box hanging over the tailgate of my truck. My neighbors have been passing by–on foot, in golf carts, or even in their own big trucks to take a closer look and to speculate about what I might be planning.
What’s in the box? They want to know. Is it for the truck or the RV? Could those be truck steps? Might they be the electronic kind that retract when the truck starts? Who will put them on the truck? They will approach me gradually, as they believe the time is right, seeking answers to their questions.
The first question came Wednesday afternoon as I sat at my picnic table appraising the myriad of parts that came in the box. It was a forthright “what are you doing?” from a man at least five spaces down.
“Steps,” I told him, pointing to the truck. He asked me if I had all the tools I needed and seemed surprised to learn that I did.
“You must be one of those mechanical girls,” he said, proceeding to offer up his best suggestions for how I might tackle the job. I thanked him for his good advice, and he laughed. “I rarely give good advice,” he responded, “but I take it even less than I give it!”
By Thursday morning I realized that I needed to stop trying to prepare and just do it. My neatly folded instruction manual offered no insight as I turned it this way and that, eyes searching fruitlessly for step one. I looked past the manual to the neat rows of plastic bags that segregated the parts. The sheer number of bolts, nuts, brackets, and washers overwhelmed me, each of them clamoring for my attention the way I’d love people to clamor for my newly published book, Evolving Elizah: Initiatum. All I could do was take my best guess and start bolting on parts.
Sooner, rather than later, it began to make sense.
Now I can see which pieces fit together, and when I realize I’ve used locking washers where I should have used plain washers, I take it all apart and start again. Why not? The sun is shining, there is a nice breeze, and I want to do the job properly.
Neighbors pass by, asking their questions and offering words of encouragement. I slide out from under my truck to retrieve a fresh batch of parts and comment to the latest passerby, “This might take me all day, but I’m going to get these steps on my truck.” He laughs and replies, “Well, what else do you have to do? If you were further north, you’d be shoveling snow.” Indeed.
I am struck with a realization. No one is judging me. I’ve received no criticism, no condescension–only words of encouragement. Perhaps my neighbors are skeptical of berating a woman with a socket wrench in her hand (especially one with striped socks and sandals,) but what difference does it make? They have offered me kindness and support, and I choose to accept it.
I take a moment to breathe in deeply, closing my eyes to feel the sun on my face, and then I check the ratchet on my wrench and slide back underneath my truck. Enjoyment seems so elusive these days, so I grab it by the tail and revel in satisfaction as my two hands make it all come together. I am pleased to spend my time this way, and isn’t that what it’s about? Indeed.
Time is one of the few things we all have in common.
We may live different ways in different places. We may speak different languages and want different things, but we all receive the same gift each moment we are here–time. The gift comes with a choice. How will you choose to use your time? How will I choose to use mine?
As my time on South Padre Island winds down, I find myself reflecting on choices I’ve made about how to spend my time. Some of my choices made me happy, others made me miserable, but I think the only time I truly wasted was the time I spent believing I had no choice in the matter.
I know now that we don’t have to make time for things we love. The time is already there, a gift we’ve been given so freely. All we have to do is choose how to use it. Enjoyment seems so elusive these days, but it doesn’t have to be. Not if we can be honest with ourselves about who we are and what we need and want out of all of this.
I open the door to my truck and gloriously place my foot on the new step, loving the ease I find as I climb up and then climb back down. Another neighbor passes by, checking my progress with a nod and a smile, and I conclude an afternoon well spent.