For me, a baseball game is a great place to practice working with opposites. There’s the chaos of the crowd as we hurry into the stadium. Then, especially from the tip-top “view” section, a surprising spaciousness that melds us all into one organism, a container filled with movement, sky, and sound. Then there’s the formal moment of silence at the start of the game, which heralds the anthem, which is drowned out by a (on opening day in San Francisco) zooming flyover.
The game itself teaches impermanence and letting go, as we move inexorably through the innings — each play, each gesture holds vast meaning (especially when you go with someone who loves to score the game). In a moment, the play is over, and then the inning is over.
The crowd gasps, boos, chants, applauds. Then our attention moves to the next batter. Up until the very last pitch, almost anything can happen. Sometimes it takes 13 innings, but every game will change and every game will end. Dukkha. Anatta. Anicca.
For Carol. Go Giants!