The Olympics Start on My Porch

Every Saturday morning I step onto the porch with a watering can and the delusion that I’m performing in slow motion. There’s a rhythm to it—the pour, the turn, the lean toward the geraniums like they might whisper choreography cues. I don’t *just* water plants. I conduct them.

This time of year, when the Olympics are on, it gets worse. I’ll fold laundry like I’m in a floor routine. Slice fruit with the dramatic focus of a fencing match. Somewhere deep in my bones, I know I’m never making the podium—but I’m very invested in *how* I move through the day.

It’s not about sport. It’s about energy. Motion. The joy of precision, or improvisation, or both. I admire the athletes, but I also admire the quiet gestures we do that no one sees—balancing a cup of coffee while feeding the cat, catching a falling sock midair, dodging furniture on the way to answer the door.

I think creative motion belongs in the weekend. Not to win, but to feel something shift. Maybe that’s why I’ve started dancing while vacuuming again. Not performative. Just alive.