During winter break I played many rounds of chess with Ada, who was a bit of a sore loser, and winner. Over the course of my months at the elementary school I've developed what I thought to be a fairly balanced approach to playing games with opponents under the age of ten, fine-tuned to avoid tears and maintain challenge. Tenacity is built between moves of checker pieces and placement of uno cards.
I felt this was a skill I could navigate with comfort, if not ease, but after Ada won this particular round of chess she looked up and asked with an earnestness I hope she never loses hold of: "are you going easy on me?" Of course I was, but this game was by no means handed to her. I told her no, but the question echoes in my head even now.
Are you going easy on me?
It's strange how quickly such a question comes to mind following a shift towards goodness or simplicity in my life. Last year was one of the most challenging I've faced and yet here I sit now, content, with no real wishes left unanswered.
I once opened the blinds and wondered: where did all this light come from? Why won't it give me peace? Now I find the peace I longed for in this light. Windows open and I feel the breeze, to no offense.
On a Berkeley summer day (last November) I wrote:
I feel like a scorpion frozen in amber, like I'm watching the light pass around me. the sunshine moves, we orbit, but it is without time. what else are we in absence of? I'd let it slip away regardless.
and so it all slips on into the next, but I am no longer inclined to look for the time I cannot place. whether or not I walk, I am in motion. whether or not I stand still, I am in stasis. I am in a dance with this light, and for now, it's going easy on me. and forever there remain lessons to be learned in that, too.