I first suspected the existence of parallel worlds last spring, when I passed beneath the branches of an oak and heard birds roosting above my head. I tried to get a good look at the warblers, but no amount of tilting my head or squinting rendered them visible. Chirping emanated from everywhere and nowhere at once, so I spread my arms and let the chatter rain down on me, grinning at the enchantment in the canopy.

After my husband installed a bird feeder outside our kitchen window, an overpopulated city sprung to life in our silent winter garden. As I pressed my forehead against the icy pane, great clouds of birds swooped in to feed in a jittery mass and then exploded off the perch like scattershot. I was a child again, watching a magician wave his hankie. Voila, a flock appears; voila, it vanishes.

My husband and I ventured in to a feed store redolent of cedar. We were explorers, who'd crossed a border into foreign territory. The owner spoke a language peppered with exotic words like milo, while she rang up a fifty-pound bag of seeds and a bird book for identifying our backyard population.

Today a visitor clad in polka-dotted plumage flapped onto the feeder tray. I scoured the book for its photo in order to prove its existence. When I looked up, the traveler had vanished … along with the magic.

Another lesson from the animal kingdom.
More about the trouble with labeling things.

I admire how basketball players fall. Splat on the belly and then slide across the floor, slick as a sled down a snowy hill. Or thud on to the butt and pop up as though it were part of a tumbling run. Right back in the game.

I need to learn that, because the winter I lost my footing on an icy sidewalk, my hand took the brunt of it, which broke my wrist. I was out of the game for months. It was an artless tumble. Strictly amateur.

Last week, my husband and I walked into the Y for our usual cardio and found the gym swarming with guys and girls in wheelchairs, in town for their regional basketball tournament. As in all endeavors, a star emerged, a kid with genius moves. He was fast, graceful, smart, and accurate. A set belt strapped him into the chair; both legs were missing from the hip down, his right arm amputated at the elbow. While he was executing a series of intricate fakes, dribbling into position for a three-pointer, his chair rolled over. It pinned him underneath, wheels in the air, spinning. I couldn't tell how it got worked out––I'm often six moves behind while watching a game, but he was upright and sinking a free throw before I could gasp. Before my respect finished its artless decent into pity.

I tell you what; I admire how basketball players fall.

Wheelchair Basketball
Love Letter to a Basketball Coach