It’s been a sprint since the end of January towards May. The slog of practices, games, moving, returning to the classroom.

I find myself constantly in motion— the last time I cooked an actual meal was well over three weeks ago. The days take on a technicolor sheen as the slipstream casts me forward.

Small idle moments find me rediscovering memories like an old dog stumbling over a half-buried bone in the yard. When I step back from the immediate, I can see this vast arc I’ve been riding.

Even though I intellectually knew I couldn’t shield myself from the pain on the horizon, I still tried to hide from it. Instead of passing through it and out to the other side, I lingered in this foul malaise— like the Blob had undulated over my heart and kept me in a chrysalis of unfulfilled emotion.

I woke early today— laying on my brand new light blue rose bedsheets. The hard-fought futon I wrangled after four hardware store trips (WHERE WERE THE CORRECT BOLTS?!) stood steady (enough). It felt surreal how quickly a new change had happened— A quick scene change from the top floor of my parent’s house to a NE craftsman. The light shone through the windows (drapes still not purchased, but curtain rod holder purchased— baby steps). I felt exhausted— but in a good way as the regular week pulled to a close. I work today at a high school out in Gresham— it’s a half-day and the sun is shining.

This weekend the second team has a final for President’s Cup and the top team has a quarterfinal. The top girls team has a final for the President’s Cup as well. I’ll be stood out at Tualatin for a good four hours as I coach/ cheer the kids on. It’s funny how all the drills, team talks, and personal prep goes into making moments that will flicker like halcyon lights in your memory.

Next week is try outs for the younger kiddos— I’ll be coaching the 2018 boys group. I expect dinosaur noises, tears, tackles, and big hearts from the little lads. The following week I’ll be taking over the 2011 girls group. That group I have less expectations about what I’ll experience— but I look forward to the challenge of being an age group coordinator.

I’ll never escape the Shark Boy (Taylor Lautner) comparisons. Never Jacob from Twilight— always Shark Boy. I had a set of students whisper “Doesn’t he look like…?” “Isn’t that?…” It’s not the same energy as the Val Kilmer comments, but at least I’m saved from other critiques.

“I was never that far away.” A line stolen from a Mundial magazine about Nina Hagen and her lasting impact on the Union Berlin club that her status as a legendary punk rocker helped raise support for. The quote referred to her growing up right by the Alten Försterei stadium. It made me think of my own boomerangs back into Portland— specifically southeast. Even halfway across the world, I was never that far away.

I think in many ways we’re never that far from our roots. Not if we’re able to lean into the love. They can be a wellspring in darker moments. In the times where the path forward isn’t visible. That’s when you know you’re in new terrain. Where the brambles stretch across your way forward and you have to take the scratches with the progress. Or maybe it’s not progress— but simply an aspect of the journey. The pain can serve as a wake up call to return to the present— to exist beyond our mind that crafts oh so delicate realities— ones that are blown away like gossamer thin spider webs. The ones that have disappeared from the dewey mornings where you walked on rain-soaked concrete towards a towering brick school building that basked in the orange morning light like a awning lizard.

Maybe the purpose isn’t the point. Maybe it’s living in the moments.