Pointless

I write with a heavy heart tonight. Heavy like a stone, dangling in my chest like that stupid tennis ball which hangs from the door frame. It was a frustrating night of practice; I was trying to concentrate on being relaxed and flowing and I failed on all counts. I want to feel like a whole entity rather than a collection of mismatched pieces, but I feel like I'm regressing rather than approaching this goal. All the confidence I've been trying to build for myself recently with the running and the yoga and the cute new sundress...It is all balanced precariously on the damn tennis ball. 60 hits a day we're supposed to be doing. I do that and more. My shoulder is warm and achey even now with the thought of it. What started as an amusement has become an uncomfortable symbol of my life. If I concentrate on the ball, I feel jerky and my hits are often off center, causing the ball to jump around unexpectedly. But if I concentrate on the movement - on the feel of my shoulder extending to my elbox to my wrist - cocked just so - I find that I can often hit the ball dead center without even trying that hard.

Can someone move the forest please...I can't see the trees.

Story of my life: details allude me, poking at the fringes of my consciousness and skittering away before I can trap them. It's why I'm so awful at directing bouts: my mind captures everything as one great abstraction. Trying to overcome something so ingrained has so far been fruitless so I am trying to work with it. Seeing my entire body connect with the tennis ball rather than just the ball itself. So far, the results are disheartening.

I approach the weekend with no small amount of trepidation.