• PF Legge

Seasons


It was so hot here on Tuesday that I cut football practice short. And I never cut football practice short. Our practices are never more than two hours including warm up and cool down because high school players have limited attention spans, but still. The sun was an insistent searing pressure and I wasn’t wearing a helmet or shoulder pads. I felt for my guys, so even though we were taking frequent water and shade breaks we shut it down after an hour or so. The weather is breaking as I write, and I hope the worst of the usual September heat is behind us.

Our first game is tomorrow night and it is hard to believe it is here. We spend the better part of eight months preparing in one way or another for this event. We work out or practice at least once a week and most of the time more than that. I think we are fortunate that this process echoes the passing of the seasons. It feels rhythmic and right somehow that we labour in the dark cold months at night in the gym, move outside as well in the spring and summer and then move into fall with renewed purpose and excitement.

I have heard the joke that Canada now has two and half seasons really. Summer, winter and two weeks each of fall and spring. I don’t know about that though. The falls of 2014 and 2015 were real as I remember it. Brisk in October and then snow in November, just like the old days.

We are obviously back in class and the students don’t seem to mind. Many of my colleagues have expressed the same sentiment. Time to get back to work. I seem to be caught in the middle, one foot in the whirling work world, the other in my writing, riding and just being. I have friends in both places and that muddies the waters even further. Not sure how I feel about it. Another stage of life I guess. I know I am lucky to be around to experience it. And the kids and the teachers just keep getting younger.

I am reading The Yellow Birds by Kevin Powers. Dense and melancholy. Recommended.

I am listening to A Way of Life from The Last Samurai Soundtrack 8 minutes of beautiful sound.

Poetry

How would honesty be?

Right next to the bone

Cuts that ache not sting

Pain from truth worse than a lie

Questions answered

Fears confirmed


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