The Art of Seeking

I slip and fall hard on my back. 

"Holy mother of God," I gasp as the wind is knocked out of me.

I lay there for what feels like an eternity. I inhale and exhale, my stomach feeling tight and painful, and wait for my head to stop spinning. I get on my hands and knees, cursing my sister. Why, oh, why did I listen to her? Roller skating is most definitely not easy, and neither is it gracious. 

A girl jogging by gives me a sympathetic smile. Perfect, I should’ve practiced somewhere other than the public park to avoid embarrassing myself. I slowly take the skates off my feet. I carry the rollerblades and walk to a bench, my poor white socks undoubtedly getting ruined along with my dignity. 

I sit down and stretch my back carefully, rolling my shoulders. I drink water from my annoyingly-bright blue hydro flask and hold it up to my cheek, the coolness lessening my nausea. I must have easily fallen about a dozen times, thrice on my knees and wondering why I’d worn shorts and no knee caps. I open my gray messenger bag and take out a cheap sketchbook I recently got from the Dollar Store, one of the few materials I bought to try my hand at different hobbies. I look around the park in search of a victim. Ah. 

I see a lady sitting by the sandbox in the playground, yelling at her children to “be careful at the monkey bars” even though they look about thirteen. I poise my hand over the thick beige paper and process the scene. I look at the blank page for a minute. How to start? Do I draw what I see in random fashion, or do I draw figures for reference? After meditating on the subject, I decide to begin with a circle for the head. After unlimited amounts of erasing and smearing I’ve only come to sketch what looks like the profile of a deformed creature from Whoville; the nose is too short, the length of the head does not feel right, and the eyes are not it. I guess drawing isn’t for everyone, or maybe I just need to develop my style and grow more comfortable with seeing the world from a more artsy perspective… but that would take too long and I have no patience. 

Which is why suddenly the knitting kit for dummies I have is discarded from my list. I try again to draw, this time my own hand, but I make my fingers look like strange sausages and I give myself a nonexistent wrist. 

I close the sketchbook, grit my teeth, and put it away, switching it for my dad’s sturdy, old canon camera. I rub the lens with the hem of my The Beach Boys shirt and bring it up to my eye. I am aware that professionals change settings and shutter speed and whatnot, but I have no clue on how to do such things- so I merely seek for landscapes worthy of a picture in a bare camera. After scrutinizing the trees, the sky, and the people minding their own business through the camera, I find nothing. Is there something wrong with me? Do I not have an artistic eye? Is it because I’m right-handed?

I take my phone and dial my older sister’s number. 

“Hello?” Her voice is raspy. “Bye, Rose, take care!” She says to someone else.

“Isabel, I am ruined, I can’t rollerblade, or draw, or do photography.” I say by way of greeting. 

“Dear Sadie, Have you tried skateboarding?” She asks.

I snort. “Do you want me to freaking fall and break my skull like an egg? Your precious rollerblades almost committed homicide on me.”

“Love the positive energy.” She sighs. “Look, maybe you are not good at creative things, how about sports? Sports that don’t involve challenging gravity, that is.”

I think about it and it doesn’t sound bad at all. “I did immensely enjoy badminton in high school.” I slowly tell her, gathering my stuff and walking to my truck. 

“Very good, I just finished my singing gig at the theater. Come pick me up, there’s this sports center we can go to.”

“Brilliant.” I mimic Harry Potter. I hang up, opening the door of my 89’ Ford pickup and throwing my bag inside before hopping in. 

-----

“WATCH OUT!” Someone shouts. I turn my head and cover my face with my arms just in time to avoid a broken nose. The ball hits me hard on the elbow, but it doesn’t hurt as much as my face would have. 

“Be more careful, will ya?” I shout back, rubbing my bruised elbow. I bend down to pick up the basketball ball and throw it back at the tall guy. 

He catches it and fixes his sweaty headband with his free hand. “Sheesh.”

I turn to my sister. “So, I was thinking we could try tennis or ping-pong.” 

Isabel smiles. “Not basketball?” 

“Nope, I have many bad memories from it. Remember seventh grade, when I dislocated my shoulder?” 

“Oh yeah!” She sucks air through her teeth. “That one big girl who slammed you against the wall.”

“She told the coach it had been an accident.” I roll my eyes. “She hated my guts for no apparent reason.” 

We go past the basketball courts and enter the building. The lady at the front desk grins at us and pushes her glasses up her nose as we approach. “How can I help you, girls?”

“Hi! Where is the tennis and volleyball court?” I ask. 

She checks her clipboard. “There is one free court in room C-5.” She points to the hall on our left. “Go down the hall and to the left, there are the “C” rooms, just follow the numbers.”

“Thank you.” My sister and I say synchronically.

We follow the lady's directions and peek through a small bullet-proof window on the thick door to C-5. There are two young men playing tennis vigorously. 

“So it’s true, tennis players do grunt all the time.” Isabel says as their grunts echo, accompanied with the squeak of their shoes on the polished wood floors.

“It’s apparently also true that they’re all handsome.” I wiggle my eyebrows. 

She snorts. “You can barely see their—no, you’re absolutely right.”

I look at my black Nike shorts and oversized Yosemite t-shirt. “Now I’ll feel intimidated and too aware of myself.”

“Eh, who cares. At least you’re not wearing freaking spandex.” She snaps the waistband of her leggings and opens the door. 

-----

I slide down the wall and plop down on the floor, sweating to the bone. 

Isabel pants, lying on the floor next to me. “That was so bad.”

I whine. “I know, did you see how I tripped over my own feet?”

“Sadie,” she feigns a British accent. “We have embarrassed ourselves in front of possible suitors.” 

The men look over, grin, and say something to each other. “I think they can hear you.” I start to laugh. 

She wheezes. “I’ve reached the next level of shame.”

“At least you found your hobbies, I repel them. I’ve tried sewing, drawing, painting, rollerblading, photographing, bird-watching, origami, even coding for God’s sake.” I breathe in deeply. “It seems like I’m not any good at pastime activities.” 

“That’s a lie! You’re a very good fiction writer.”

“That’s not a hobby.” I shake my head. “That’s my dream career.”

Isabel thinks for a second. “You write poems and songs, too, do you not?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Don’t but-me, Sadie. Even if you don’t publish them, even if they’re only for yourself, they’re a form of art and a pastime. Going in a search for your spark is an art, too, it’s called having adventures.”

I grin at her. “You’re right. Thank you.” 

She stands up and offers me her hand. “Besides, to feel complete you have to look inside yourself, not outside.” 

I take her hand and stand. “Wise words.”

“What are big sisters for, huh?”