Zen and the Art of Frisbee Throwing

I played a good round of frisbee for the first time in ages yesterday. The first throw was way out there. The next, a little closer. We found the right speeds and angles at which to throw. The old muscle memory started to come back.

I played with a buddy in a park in Oberkassel, the über-snooty part of Düsseldorf. There's lots of homes for the people of opulant lifestyles; early 20th century architecture; columns, window sills, and doorways richly adorned as if draped with plastered lace and garland.

Springtime is begining. We played until 7PM, but I wasn't watching a clock. I saw the sky and I felt my arm tiring and said, "5 catches in a row, then we stop." Our concentration, which had been gradually declining, suddenly came back. We threw 5 catches in a row, then I said, "We play until one of us drops it." I smiled wide as I watched one toss float into my partner's hand. He laughed. We completed 10 or 20 more tosses until the frisbee flew over my head and I let it drop.

I knew the park from a time this winter when I decided to explore Oberkassel. It's quiet and open. A place for runners, dog-walkers and the occasional badmitten players. When I walked through there on that winter day, it was snowing; lightly, but constantly. I thought of a line from Bukowski's Ham On Rye: "The air was white." The air then... it was white.

When my friend and I packed up to go, the sun was setting, the clouds changing from their brilliant white against a backdrop of blue, to hues of red against a backdrop of purple, fading to black.