Holy Gutter Ball!

So, the story goes like this.

My sister found these bowling shoes on clearance.  They are red.  Red with big white stars everywhere. These shoes are SO cool. 

So cool that she couldn’t help but wonder why they had been on clearance for long enough for those bright white stars to turn a yellowish color.  

On one side of one shoe.

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Maybe she should have stopped right there.  But karma?  Karma is a funny thing.

So, she bought them.  Cute shoes.  Good deal.  

No problem, right?

Well, maybe one little problem:

she doesn’t actually bowl.

Or she didn’t when she first got the shoes. 

The plot thickens.

A few days post-cool-shoes-purchase she was bragging on her new digs with her roller derby friend… and somehow it came up that this guy they know named Brian was a pretty good bowler…

So, my sister’s not-so-good-at-bowling-roller-derby friend, and my non-bowling-sister hook up with Brian the bowling wizard.

Now starts the bowling.

So, my sister’s not-so-good-at-bowling-roller-derby friend scores a cool looking ball from a thrift store and has it weighed at the checkout (on a scale that also happens to be for sale at that same thrift store). 

There are lots of things wrong with this picture: 

First, why a non-bowler cares what her ball weighs is perplexing, and then there's "how accurate can the weight be on a thrift score scale actually be?" argument, and there's one more wrong with this whole thing: the ball is actually not intended for adult use.  It is kid's bowling ball.

So the holes?   Kid size. They are death traps.  (Have you ever hear that story about the raccoon who stuck his hand in a butter churn and made little fists filled with butter so tight that someone could’ve come up and darn near cooked him for dinner right on the spot because  he wouldn't let go of the butter and therefore couldn’t get his hands out of the butter churn?)

Well, it isn’t quite like that.  But a little. 

Because if my sister’s not-so-good-at-bowling friend sticks her fingers in that ball?… (which at some point is a requirement to actually scoring), she’d most definitely have them stuck there for life. 

It would be a miserable way to go… fingers wedged into a kids bowling ball… like little Vienna sausages too small for their package.

Left there to rot, do doubt. 

Left there to rot in a ball… with the name “Debbie” engraved on it.  Had I mentioned that part?   

The roller derby bowling lady purchased a ball, from a thrift store, with someone else’s name engraved on it.

This whole bowling thing is getting closer and closer to leaving all ten pins standing.

So, one night while bowling, my sister talks her friend into weighing Debbie at the Pro Shop before leaving, despite a convincing point that “Maybe Debbie doesn't want to be weighed… maybe Debbie is sensitive about her weight.” 

As they are leaving, they pass by the pro shop and in a weak moment, Debbie gets weighed, and gets her holes drilled to match the finger size of the roller derby queen. 

Meanwhile, the pro shop guy is short on cash and swings my sister a SUHweet deal… He says, “Tonight, $50 bucks cash will buy you a ball… and a bag… oh, and “you too can have a bowling ball custom drilled to fit your fingers”. 

SOLD!  She bites. Buys. Drills.

She turns to walk out… just as the pro shop guy adds, “Oh!  You probably aren’t going to want to leave your bowling ball in the car.  Not in this weather…It’s way too cold at night. It may shatter.”

All pins:  definitely standing.

So, let's step away, shall we? 

It appears to have all started with those cute little clearance shoes.  Now, one lucky lady has a weekly commitment with Brian the wonder-bowler, Debbie, the kid sized bowling ball and her handler the roller derby queen, and the most recent addition to my sister’s family:  a sensitive 10 pound needy little rolly poll of a bowling ball… a bowling ball that requires that in a single day, she accompany her handler into her workplace, be carried back out to the car after work, schlepped to the bowling alley, played with, taken back out to the car, driven home, and lugged back into the house to be kept warm until next week’s bowling outing.

Somehow I don’t think the twenty bucks my sister laid down for that cute little pair of shoes had all these considerations in the mix. 

So, here’s the morale of the story, Yogis: 

Thoughts become Words.

Words become Actions.

Actions become Habits.

Habits become Character.

Character becomes Your Destiny.

 

Let me make this yet a little clearer:

Thought:        “Cute!”

Words:            “Those are cute!  And On sale!”

Actions:           $$$ ChaCHING! $$$

Habit:              Thursday night bowling league

Character:      InDEED!

Destiny?         You get the picture.

 

So, it is pretty simple.  You’ve heard it before.  Thoughts become things.  And yes, everything is sacred, but it is nice when we don’t have to convince ourselves of such.  

Every little detail. 

Every little details matters. 

Every thought.  Action.  Habit.  Every way in which we practice.  Or not.  Everything and way in which we eat, drink, speak, commune, connect, move through this world are all part of your unfolding destiny.  

And if you are up for a wild game of bowling, with an adopted pseudo bowling child, and a learning curve steep as a cliff,  Then I say, "go for it!"  

Go ahead and buy those cute little bowling shoes. 

And get ready to sanctify, sanctify, sanctify.

We know everything is holy.   That isn't the question.  

But / And.  The question is really this:  If you want the road to be a little easier…. With a few less holy gutter balls, take a deep breath before laying down that credit card, hitting send, leaving that voice message, writing that check, signing on that dotted line…

And, instead, maybe first ask yourself,  “Am I making a conscious, calculated, clear and heart felt move here?"  And if the answer is, "Yes"…

I say….. SSSSSSSTRIKE!

Namaste,

Britt

 

P.S.  Just a fun way to say:  Wanna do it with intention?  Deliberation?  Exuberant Articulation?  Join us over the new years…  We promise:  there will be no bowling at the YogaFarm.

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Britt B Steele

Britt B Steele, USA