That's a good problem to have, if you are me. Better to have too much inventory than too little, eh?
Much of these unwritten writings in my mind are about love of all kinds. I think we sometimes are too limited in our definition of love, and how we express it to one another.
Some loving acts hurt -- badly. These can take the form of truth-telling when the recipient doesn't want to hear that truth.
Some love is subversive. It erupts spontaneously in ways and at times that could not be more inconvenient. But it still is love.
Some is predictable. If you devote yourself to another, through thick and thin, as the cliche goes, you may not experience the highs and lows of romantic love all that often in your life, but you may find a deeper meaning by staying connected to your soul-mate.
Perhaps no one knows about the "inside of love" (Nada Surf) as much as two ninety-year-olds who have been together seventy years. At least that is my fantasy idea, one utterly unconnected from my kind of life.
***
Then there is the ache of the love of a father for his son who his hurt and cannot compete.
That's him, with the red hair, between his coaches. His swollen, twisted ankle precluded play today, but he was with his team as they accomplished something no one associated with the school's soccer program can recall happening -- they beat the mighty Lowell team 1-0 -- at Lowell.
They did this with less than half as many players. And with about six of us as fans against maybe 50 from Lowell. (Nobody attends high school soccer games in San Francisco.)
So the regular season is over and now they go to the city playoffs next Wednesday.
I'm trying to ice my son's ankle tonight in order to get him ready to play next week.
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