Weather Diary - Day 18 (Thursday April 6 2006 Partly Cloudy 64F)

'On Friendship'

When I finish my current 'page-turner', I celebrate by hunkering down and getting on with it.
It is absolutely time to
Get. To. Work.

Artwork that is.
Here is where I stand on Day 18:

• The works on 24" x 36" panels are progressing well. 
• My self-portrait at age twelve, is coming along beautifully. 
• I have two (quite successful) watercolours for our hotel-owning friends (So far... working on number three.)
• I am completely and utterly faithful to my evening drawing, (10" x 10" oil pastel and graphite abstract landscapes, seventeen and counting.)
• A small pad full of notes, colour studies, sketches of the sea, comes with me everywhere.
• I  have (at least) half a dozen women's basketball games under my belt.

Oh, wait a minute. (Did I say that out loud?)

A guilty secret, but true. I am still on a high after the NCAA 2006 women's basketball final of Tuesday night. (Maryland Terrapins 78, Duke Blue Devils 75)
A basketball game of such skill that it really makes little sense to point out that it is women's basketball. They are, quite simply, incredibly good basketball players. And the joy for me is that I can watch it! As they actually show such things here in North Carolina!!
I do feel a (wee) bit guilty.
Here I am on my 'self-inflicted hermit's pilgrimage', spending the days beginning at 5 a.m., with spiritual reading, art, contemplative walks and sea study. And here I am spending the evenings in front of a 36" TV, perched on the edge of the sofa, clutching a beer.
Doesn't quite fit the image.
Even so, I like this time to myself, for myself. It is my 'kick-back' time, after all.
I am an enthusiastic retired basketball player, (University of Toronto, Scarborough College 1975-78). Thirty years ago.
Ew.
But I can relate to, well, to the extreme closeness and friendship that this level of competition brings out.
And these gals are close. Oh my, they are tight buds. Yes yes, they are a well-oiled machine, excellently coached, highly skilled and trained on plays, (so much so that they could run them in their sleep). But also this.
They clearly clearly care deeply for each other.
And I find myself wondering, "Is this a girl thing?"

Because if nothing else, if I take away nothing else from my basketball playing days of the mid-70's, friend-wise, it is a glorious golden time in my life.
There are four of us.
(There are, of course, others team members, and each year we do have strong ties that bind the team together.)
But the four of us are inseparable. And dedicated.
Dedicated to the point of knowing each others moves, thoughts, reactions.
We master silent communication.
We practice together daily. We hang out together. Go everywhere together. We play together.
We win.
I can't help but wonder if it is friendship that makes things work for us.
The fact that we do anything for each other, that we care what happens, that we love each other.
Doesn't that count for something?
And yes, we all have other friends. Childhood neighbours, school mates, camp friends. But with the four of us, it is as though we have been through something together. Something big. Like people who cling to each other through a crisis and have that extra perception, that tie, that memory, forever after.

It is a strikingly beautiful day on Ocracoke Island. For Chester and me, perfect conditions to walk the beach and study the sea.
The sea, a deep blue-green, the clouds scuttling across the open sky. I think of my basketball friends, all far away. We do still keep in touch, (although there are often longish gaps), and there is still love, the kind of love that has softened and faded with the passage of time and changing circumstances. But it is love, this deep binding friendship.

Chester and I have an hour on the beach, marching its empty length. I, in the frilly rippling shallows, he, nosing around the base of the dunes, matching me stride for stride, (unless he finds something 'interesting'). On the way home, we pass the coffee shop, the library (both closed), the one and only Ocracoke school (finished for the day), the outdoor basketball court (with a single orange basketball sitting under one net).
No one about, and a single orange basketball sitting under one net.
As Chester lies in the cool grass, I (at first disastrously - so badly that I am grateful there is no one about), shoot baskets. But gradually gradually, it comes back, and after fifteen minutes, (due more to luck than skill), I sink a hook shot which is, for this fifty year old, enough.
And we head for home.