This week I joined a Frisbee club. I have to admit I was a
little nervous having never been part of a Frisbee club, but thankfully no-one
took it too seriously and it was a lot of fun. It was a warm sunny day and the ground
was dry. The funny thing about grass though, is that even when it’s dry, it’s
slippery. On TV it’s the banana skin that’s king of the unexpected slippery
substance list, in real life though, grass has to be up there somewhere. Every
time I tried to turn quickly or come to a sudden stop, my feet would slide out
from underneath me and I would end up in a heap on the ground. The famous
expression which extolled the need to keep one’s feet on the ground came to
mind. But what does it really mean?
We tend to immediately think it calls for the need to
sacrifice excitement, or creativity, or adventure, to make place for caution
and sensibility and seriousness. Our culture often tells us that we are either
one or the other, that the two cannot coincide. Indeed, I did sacrifice in
order to keep my feet on the ground. I moved less, and when I did I moved less
suddenly. I did in fact keep my feet on the ground, but at what cost? I became
unable to create much space and had to settle for less incisive passing, in
short, I became a worse player, but one which was at least stood upright. But
if we keep our feet on the ground by not moving at all have we really gained
anything at all?
Well in the end I decided no, I just gave into falling over
sometimes. And after the game what really should have been obvious was
expressed by one of the other players; what I really needed was a pair of
studded boots. Perhaps that’s what we all need life; something to help us
adhere our creativity to caution and our seriousness to our adventure. Perhaps
even, what our world needs are people who are willing to be those studded boots
and hold the two worlds together.
As I walked down the street the other day, I realised that I
had picked up a passenger along the way. No, someone hadn’t stealthily jumped
on my and taken a piggy back ride without me noticing, my passenger was not a
person, but a bee. I looked down and right in the middle of my jumper was a
little white tailed bumble bee. He remained there seemingly contented for the
duration of my fifteen minute walk. And as I walked I watched him as he walked
around a little a repeatedly pawed at my jumper with his little hands (or
whatever it is that a bee has at the end of its arms/legs…). Now not being an
entomologist I don’t really have a clue what he was doing, but to me it looked
for all the world like he was trying to gather nectar from my jumper.
Which if he really was, was crazy because not only was it
not a flower, it in no way resembled a flower, it wasn’t brightly coloured and
didn’t really smell particularly nice either (not that I’m saying my clothes
smell bad…). But the craziest thing of all is that after fifteen minutes of
trying and presumable failing, he was still unable to see his mistake! As I watched him persist in his mistake I gained sympathy
for my new little friend. I realised how easy it is to get trapped by your
mistakes. How sometimes it can be very hard to see that what is going wrong is
not some small detail, but rather the very thing you were so convicted about in
the beginning. I pray to God that I may have the humility to see the places
where I have mistaken woolly jumpers for flowers so that I might not waste my
time trying to harvest where there is no nectar!
