Scratch, Spare, Strike
Thalia rummaged through tees, clubs, mitts, cleats, and darts. “Doesn’t she have a bowling ball?”
Calliope and Urania shook their heads from left to right.
“Bowling slippers?” Thalia persisted.
“They’re called shoes,” Nia replied. “And, no. Not those either.”
“You mean we’re going to have to wear those blue & red or orange & green rentals that they spray with only God knows what after each random foot slips out of them?” Thalia wrinkled her nose. Generally not one to be fussy, the Muse of Wit had an unexplainable distaste for feet and ugly footwear.
“Yup!” said Calliope. She clapped her hands with the enthusiasm of a five-year-old. “Who cares? We get to go bowling with a friend on a Wednesday afternoon. What’s better than that?”
Urania smiled.
Thalia rummaged through her pockets and found a pair of dangly earrings made of miniature pins and bowling balls. “Okay!” she said. “Let’s do this! Who is going to get the high score?”
A word from Typist:
An afternoon of bowling with Donna coming up!
I read a Red Hand File email from Nick Cave yesterday. Near the end he said,
Perhaps, the sacred space is simply the world itself – a hallowed place where we all exist at this time, where we engage with life in all its many tempers, within the present moment.
This afternoon a bowling alley will be my sacred space.
What is yours?
Scratch, Spare, Strike
My sacred place is the front living room. Everyone enters the house from the mud room door on the driveway side. My house sits 213 years old at an angle on the lot. This was once the last place in town. There’s still a 200 acre farm on the side with a beautiful red barn. My house was the original General Store when horse drawn carriages, horses with wagons and such were the only transportation. Until 1878 when the railroad moved in a mile away, taking all the stores with it. Across from the house used to be a huge building which had 100 employees who made and fixed carriage and wagon wheels. The land to the west of it was all part this farm originally. Behind the house on the driveway side was a tavern and a silversmith. There are pieces of foundation that poke up all around. Especially going down to the river.
The front living room has double doors that open to the front porch. My front garden beds are right there. In the summer my sacred place moves to the front porch wicker chaise lounge.
Button: “Pizza. Square box. Round pizza. Triangle slices. I’m confused.” 😁
Not sure as I have a sacred space, alas. Not much of a spiritual person, alas. ☹️
Wait! Yes, my sacred space would be Home, and Home is where Deb is! 😊