NOTICING THINGS ON A MISTY MONDAY MORNING IN THE PARK

THE TIME

It's never a coincidence that Passover, Easter, Spring and Baseball all converge at this same time of year. It's that star-crossed time when our species seems to collectively reach out for salvation. Different kinds of salvation; but salvation all the same.

With Passover, the Jews of the world gather to remember and honor their salvation from bondage. And the exodus that would in time set them free. Freedom, not being a static thing, each year the sacred Seder celebrate its recurring requirement of them.

With Easter, the Christians of the world honor the salvation of their souls by the redemptive death and resurrection of the Messiah. Eggs help symbolize the opened tomb, recalling how His ascension into heaven opened the trail for others to follow.

With Spring and Baseball, Winter's refugees come out to hear the crack of bats against white balls. An annual ritual of salvation from the dark confines of the dark season. Cheering in the stands becomes a prayer to the breaking of our chains.

Strolling my park, I can sense each of these salvations in sunshiny progress....and it is good.

THE SPORTS PAGE

Scudding across the windy green of my park is this discarded sports page. The proper thing to do is to retrieve and dispose. Only, as I do, I can't help but scan the stories, and smile a dismissive smile. In all of western civilization, the sports page is indisputably the most tiresome litany ever framed by the human language!

Will there ever be found in any of the cities anywhere in the world a sports page without the same dreadfully dreary repetitions? The same teeth-barring athletes extolling their teethy scores...the same rehearsed quotes about "we play them one at a time"...the same concocted disputes among the same cockeyed athletes? It is as if these reporters simply mail in their stories by pre-arranged file numbers.

I rush to admit I am the least athletic anatomy in sight. But good god there must be at least one perhaps two different ways of reporting the same damn story. Let it be said here and now -- the joy of spring sports will forever be found on the playing fields, never on the sports pages.

THE COUPLE

There, holding hands under a billowing Willow, sit two old-looking young people. The love of a fresh new marriage seems to glisten in their eyes. Animate their conversation. I am embarrassed but drawn to overhear them.

There is the excitement of planning something. A birth. A child. A dream. A future. Hoping for a healthy baby to fulfill their new love, to complete their untested journey, to permit them to share in the enormous act of human creation.

It's hard to make out the faces from this distance, but the feelings are framed inside the glow of tomorrow. They see that their unborn child will be strong and healthy and happy inside the safe, little world they are planning for it. In the safe little community they have carved out for their lives together. I can't help but be drawn to their dream, to race through thoughts about who they are. And why they are here in my park on this Spring day.

As they get up and start to walk away, I want to hurry and ask who they are, and why I seem to recognise them. But then they wouldn't be able to see me. Not yet. Nor would I really need to ask them...