This posting is my first blog on my new website, and I am finally getting back into the swing of writing since completing my manuscript in December 2014. I spent nearly all of 2014 writing Mirror of the Soul: A Flutist’s Reflections, and when I needed to clear my head, I would go to the track and walk a dozen laps. Ideas would miraculously enter my mind, and, upon returning home, I would begin typing. I have continued that fitness regimen as a way of relieving stress. On Sunday, I was watching some kids doing some batting practice as I did my laps around the track. They had a plastic bucket full of softballs but couldn’t hit the balls across the field. As I was trying to figure out if this was due to the pitching or the batting, one of the balls soared towards me, and I picked it up and tossed it back. It was then that they invited me to try my hand at hitting – something I had not done in almost 35 years!

I grew up as the only girl in a neighborhood of approximately a dozen boys, so I played baseball and touch football. I loved baseball! We played wiffle ball and tennis ball in the parking lot next to my house, and we played hardball at a nearby field. I developed my batting skills in order to compete with the boys and wasn’t a bad pitcher either. The boys, however, insisted on me playing the outfield. I remember stepping up to the plate with the intention of smacking the ball over the roof of the church, which was located at the end of the parking lot. Many times my ball ended up hitting the roof or getting stuck in the rain gutter. The boys would then have to climb up on the roof and retrieve the ball.

As I stepped up to the plate and picked up a wooden bat for the first time in 35 years, it felt natural. I took a few swings before the pitcher tossed the ball and decided that I preferred aluminum bats to wood. As the first pitch was thrown, I realized that I had never before hit a softball thrown underhand. I was used to the overhand throw of a hardball. As I hit the softball for the first time, the first thing that struck me was the sound of the bat hitting the softball was much duller than the sound of an aluminum bat hitting a hardball. I missed the crack I used to hear. This was more like a thud, and it was much more difficult to nail it into the field. I hit a lot of fly balls and a foul before nailing the softball between first and second base. I had my share of misses as well but managed to hit more balls than I missed. My batting lasted all of five minutes, but I managed to have some important realizations. It was fairly easy for me to access the “baseball mindset” I had decades ago. Holding the bat felt natural. Perhaps I was accessing the “now” of time, better known as kairos or eternity discussed in my book. At that moment, no time had passed at all for me. It was a familiar feeling. I could have been at that parking lot again. At first, connecting bat to ball was much more difficult than it had been years ago because I lacked the ability to let go and aim for the outfield. I was far too focused on the ball itself when I should have been thinking about where I wanted that ball to go. I should have been setting my intention. Intent followed by proper action is everything. It creates miracles. I realized that I probably preferred aluminum bats because I am generally drawn to metal. Perhaps the metal bat reminded me of my silver flute. Silver has the purest sound of all the metals, and aluminum bats generate a tremendous crack upon coming into contact with a hardball. The sound is as focused as that of the silver flute! As a flutist, I must allow my airstream to hit the proper place on the lip plate. The direction of my air focuses the sound and allows me to transmit beauty.

There is a certain beauty to the swing of a baseball bat or even that of a golf club. Accessing the “now” of time at home plate reminded me of another activity I enjoyed as a child – playing miniature golf. There is something about swinging metal or holding metal! It has resonance and resonates with me. My Italian grandpa, Joe, and my nana owned a home at Penn Lake Park near White Haven, PA. Grandpa Joe died a few years before I was born, but Nana maintained the house at the lake. We loved visiting her for three reasons: it was cooler at the lake, we got to go swimming and we played miniature golf at the general store. I remember the childlike excitement of choosing the golf club and selecting the perfect golf ball. My favorite color balls were red and blue. My dad taught us the art of swinging the club, and with the proper intent there was the occasional hole-in-one. I liked the sound of the club coming into contact with the ball as well. All is sound or vibration. All is music, and, as mentioned in my book, the word universe literally translates one song. I can attune myself to that symphony whether I am swinging a bat or a club or focusing my air to shape a beautiful musical phrase. I am grateful to be back in the swing of things again, and I find it interesting that home plate allowed me to return home to the familiar. Perhaps I never left.