I’ve always wondered what my life would have been like if I hadn’t blown off soccer.
Not that I was any good, you see, but there is something about the flexibility and fluidity needed for playing that makes me think that there were good lessons to be learned there on that muddy field, lessons I passed up in a storm of ‘Really? I really have to do this?’ and general whining and bratty pre-teen bitching.
But I wonder what would have been if I’d had the stick-to-it ness I needed to become good on the flute, as well.
(My flute teacher had a faint sibilant French accent that was, retrospectively, creepy as all hell. ‘You have not been practisssssing to your potential, Jessssica. Why would you wound your flute sssso?’)
There are so many twists and turns on our lives, so many paths we’ve never taken, so many intersection points where we switched lanes and jumped on a new bandwagon, abandoning the old in favour of the shiny new. I envy people that decided early on that they would stay with one thing – and then went on to be fulfilled with that. Clever.
I’m not clever. I’ve been hop-scotching through hobbies and pastimes my whole life – (clarinet to flute to piano to soccer to shotput to volleyball to drama to writing to cross-stitch to cooking to photography to ??) guaranteeing that while I’m an expert at just about nothing, I know a little about a lot of things – usually just enough to get me in trouble.
My father is not a hopper. While always learning and rehoning his skills, he’s been playing the bass and the banjo and taking photographs for ever. He’s good at it.
I’m a little jealous of that. Maybe if I’d just stuck with soccer……
(nah. I still don't like the idea of all the mud.)