I would have missed out on the joy of many summers, had it been about winning. Each game started in our basement laundry room. I would dig through the baskets of clean clothes for my t-shirt that designated this year’s team. Baskets, similar to those of the Easter Bunny — somehow you knew in your heart that your mother filled them, but there was still a hint of magic. I pulled through my pony-tailed head, ran my fingers over the iron-on letters and raced up the stairs to the garage. Grabbed my yellow aluminum bat — the bat that truly made a dinging sound against the ball — so fitting that on the occasion it hit a home run, we did indeed call it a dinger! I balanced the bat in the flowered basket of my banana seat bike and rode to the park of the day. We high-fived before any play was actually made. Because hadn’t we already won? We were outside. Bathed in the summer sun. Set free with all the girls once contained in the brick walls of elementary school. Reigns loosened. Dust flying. Hearts pounding. Someone kept score with a pad and pencil in the dugout, but I’m not sure anyone cared, never enough to diminish the joy anyway. Returning home, I put my shirt in the magic basket, knowing it would be washed by a mother who stood knee deep in the laundry room and still managed to smile at the replay of my day. It turns out I had won, in the best of ways!

I haven’t started my next large canvas. It takes some thought. Paint is expensive. My brain knows this, but often forgets to tell my heart, my heart that just wants to play. It pleads the case of “not everything is for the museum,” and “not everything is for sale.” I grab a small scrap of wood. The brush handles clink against the glass. It is the sound of play. The bird comes to life. It is made with only joy. I lean it up to view, step back and think, “Now that’s a dinger!”