I’m back in Eugene after an overnight work trip. What a sweet place to come home to, this little town I’ve chosen for my own. At the office, I’m greeted by smiling faces that seem happy to see me. I guess it’s true what they say about absence and fondness.
About three o’clock, I feel like I cannot possibly read another policy statement without becoming completely, gibbering mad. A river of sunshine is landing on me from my office window. It is liquid heat, and it makes me think of the patio at the pub. The little tables, the hop vines that are starting to crawl up their support strings, the green and white awning that rides above the whole scene.
And a cold beer, and my juggling balls. And a lovely friend to talk to.
Yes, it’s there, just the way I left it, waiting for me like an old friend. And the set of three balls is in my hands, and they are flying. Change up the patterns, vary the timing, stop, take a sip of the cold bitter. A hint of summery juniper assaults the tip of my tongue.
And back to the throwing. The balls move in constantly changing patterns, my hands feel happy, my whole mind is engaged. And a tiny part of me stands back and watches and notices that I’m creating something beautiful.
Then my friend is there. The only thing better than the patio, a beer and juggling is sharing that with someone else.
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