Finding the Spot

The most memorable part of my family’s day trips to State Beach in Los Angeles was one man who was always there when we arrived. He was probably about 65 and tan and trim in that way that some older men are: no rippling muscles but sharp shoulder blades and thin arms that suggested a life of action. He wore only a Speedo, and he always occupied the same exact square of beach, right next to a faded blue lifeguard stand.

As thousands of people over the course of the day walked past him, he performed the same act over and over: he heaved a large white frisbee at an angle over the ocean and toward the sky and then waited as it reached its apex and hurtled back along the incoming breeze into his outstretched hand. He was so skilled at his task that he barely ever left his small box of sand.

As a child, I noticed how oblivious everyone seemed of  this man, passers-by strolling along, talking, maybe ducking their heads for a moment to avoid the incoming frisbee. He acted as if no one was there — just him, the wind, and that spinning chunk of plastic.

That man has stuck with me all these years; I sometimes think of him when I lose my feet in the world’s stampede. My friend Carmen once showed me an exercise: she asked me to put my hands together out in front of me. She immediately pushed them down with great force. She then told me to raise them again, and that this time I could resist but not actively push back. And so I separated my feet to shoulder’s width, bent my knees, inhaled and exhaled a deep breath, and lifted my arms up. She pushed but could not budge my arms.

“Life is like me trying to push down your arms,” she said. “The trick is to always been ready to hold your ground.” This is hard because one never knows when life’s wild winds will come. Sometimes I can predict it; the transition from work to home can be difficult, going from a desk I can control and a door I can close to a house where Rio wants to play the second I arrive, any plans I had for myself gone like a string on a helium balloon. Sometimes I have literally shaped my right hand into a “c” (for chaos) and knocked it against my forehead a couple of times before entering the house to remind myself to brace for life’s half nelson.

The truth is, I try to be attentive to those around me, particularly Annie and Rio. The trick is balancing this with my own inner life, which can be just as demanding. If I ditch it for them, I risk losing touch with the channel that sometimes opens inside me. If I ditch them for it, I might not be there when they need me, and vice versa, something I witnessed happen with too many fathers. Just tonight I tried to squeeze in a few moments with the page right as my domestic needs came calling. I chose the words, which felt right at the time, but it can carry a price.

I’m not sure the Frisbee guy had to grapple with this. After all, there weren’t a bunch of toddlers clamoring on a blanket beneath his feet. He could focus exclusively on that piece of plastic. Who knows, maybe every other day of the week he took care of his three grandchildren. But for me, for now, I’m constantly trying to juggle my inner and outer responsibilities, and it seems the weather of what’s right changes every hour.

Funny enough, in college I started playing Ultimate Frisbee and became well acquainted with the nuances of a flying disc. I even started practicing my throws into the ocean wind when my friends and I went to the beach. There really is an art to it: measuring the strength and direction of the wind; angling the frisbee just right; throwing that piece of plastic with just enough force that it returns to the spot you’re standing on. But the man on the beach’s true art was not simply mastering this skill but having the presence to stay committed to it while the world whirled around him. Today I set the alarm early, and Rio and Annie are, as of this moment, still sleeping.