Passion

Perhaps for the first time in my life, I admire the guys (mostly) sitting in front of a TV swearing, yelling, cheering for their favorite team, holding their breath as grown men in tight pants and helmets run up and down a false green field scoring points by throwing oblong balls and kicking their way to victory. I long for the emotions, the passion in the curses, in the yelps of joy. Because at least even in a totally vicarious way, those beer swilling stereotypes that I have never quite understood hold a sort of passion and conviction that I am envious of these days.

I am not about to don a jersey or subscribe to season tickets, as sports are still not my bag, but I finally understand the need for something to believe in- be it a fictional war between opposing teams or the fight against world hunger.

Everyone should have something they root for whether it changes the world or not.

I am still searching for my team, my community, my passion.

At one time I found it in the world of theater, in thou and thy and bright hot lights and thickly painted make up and hushed audiences searching for meaning between the lines.

Then in the wind and waves and tightly furled sails of boats and dreams of the sea.

Then in words. In words. In words that transform and nourish and encourage those who cannot speak for themselves.

Then...

I want to yell and curse and scream my passions and score a touchdown a fieldgoal a whatnot for those who cannot even consider having a passion other than the will for life, family, food.

ComPassion.

Score!