Pickleball Saturdays and the Power of Showing Up

Every Saturday morning at eight, no matter the weather, no matter the week, Megan and I play pickleball at the cracked old courts behind Cedar Falls Elementary. We have done this since February, which means we have now played pickleball in snow flurries, in mud, in a heat wave, and once in a drizzle so persistent we just kept playing because we had nothing left to lose.

Today we won both games against the retired guys, which I have decided is a sign from the universe.

But here is what I really want to tell you. The reason this matters is not the score and not even the exercise, although the exercise is real — my legs were jelly the first three weeks and now they're not. The reason it matters is that I show up. Every Saturday. Rain or shine or sleepy or grumpy or in a fight with Mark or behind on laundry. I put on my sneakers and I go.

Megan and I have agreed: the only way out is hospital or funeral. Otherwise you show up. We do not negotiate. We do not check in the night before to see if the other person 'still feels like it.' Because the truth is sometimes I do not feel like it. Sometimes I want to stay in bed with Mark another forty minutes. Sometimes the kids are clingy and the morning is hard. And the magic of the no-negotiation rule is that the showing up is what changes me, not the wanting to.

I think we tell ourselves a lie that motivation comes first and action comes second. In my actual life it has been the opposite. The action comes first and the motivation is a thing the action makes, like heat from a fire.

Today's run was a rest day, per the British man's instructions, so I considered Saturday pickleball my movement. Came home sweaty, made the kids French toast, sat at the table with a mug of coffee that was actually still hot for once.

Mark spent the day in the garage with Noah 'helping,' which involves Noah handing him every wrench in the wrong order. Emma and I went to Sweet Magnolia in the afternoon and Megan let her decorate three sugar cookies with about a pound of pink icing. Megan also pressed a bag of day-old croissants into my hands and refused payment. I will bring her a candle next week to even the score, although Megan does not believe in scores.

Picked up dog food at the feed store. Returned a library book that was three days late and cost me forty cents, the bargain of the year. Made meatloaf for dinner because Mark requested it and because meatloaf is a balm for the soul.

It's almost six. The light in the kitchen is the color of honey. Tomorrow is Sunday — pancakes, grocery list, candle pouring, the slow holy work of resetting. Show up for something this week. Anything. Make it small. Make it boring. Make it weekly. Talk tomorrow. — Lucy