Friday, April 27, 2007
Remembering Bill
We shared the best and worst, Bill Doran and I did. Love and anger. Deep spiritual insight and deeper emotional chaos. Those worst things, though, are dropping away from my memory, day by day. Leaving little hollows to be filled in by other, better, more valuable memories.
Like our ping pong game. There we were, up in the barn, playing with our brand new, thoroughly researched, ultimate ping pong table. Bill knew that I couldn't really play ping pong. And I knew that he could really, really play. And because we wanted to play together, we just more or less volleyed. After a while, Bill suggested that I just try to hold my paddle still enough so that he could get the ball to hit it. Apparently, that was more than challenge enough for him. After a while, we managed to get a volley going, Bill exercising the depth and fullness of his ping pongly skills. And after a longer while, we got a very, very long volley going. And during that volley, the ball seemed to take on it's own, almost internal light, as if it were the us, Bill and I, combined. And it was, for an instant, as if we were seeing God. Honest. When we left the barn, we were like two Buddhist monks having just achieved enlightenment. That one single experience led me to writing perhaps the most important book of my career, The Well-Played Game
Like the times Bill showed up, unannounced, to spirit us away to one place or another, one more adventure - the desert, the Grand Canyon. And the amazing sense of freedom he brought with him. Like we had all the time in the world together. "I'm loose" he would say. Because when we were together, there wasn't any place we really had to be. Like every place we were together was exactly where we were supposed to be. Which it was.
Bill was one of my best friends. And the people he brought into our lives became family, blood-connected, for life. I'm not going to miss him, really, because he's that deep a part of me. Whenever I find myself on some timeless adventure, following my impulse down the road, Bill is right there with me. I just wish he was around to take another turn at the wheel now and then.
from Bernie DeKoven, funsmith
Like our ping pong game. There we were, up in the barn, playing with our brand new, thoroughly researched, ultimate ping pong table. Bill knew that I couldn't really play ping pong. And I knew that he could really, really play. And because we wanted to play together, we just more or less volleyed. After a while, Bill suggested that I just try to hold my paddle still enough so that he could get the ball to hit it. Apparently, that was more than challenge enough for him. After a while, we managed to get a volley going, Bill exercising the depth and fullness of his ping pongly skills. And after a longer while, we got a very, very long volley going. And during that volley, the ball seemed to take on it's own, almost internal light, as if it were the us, Bill and I, combined. And it was, for an instant, as if we were seeing God. Honest. When we left the barn, we were like two Buddhist monks having just achieved enlightenment. That one single experience led me to writing perhaps the most important book of my career, The Well-Played Game
Like the times Bill showed up, unannounced, to spirit us away to one place or another, one more adventure - the desert, the Grand Canyon. And the amazing sense of freedom he brought with him. Like we had all the time in the world together. "I'm loose" he would say. Because when we were together, there wasn't any place we really had to be. Like every place we were together was exactly where we were supposed to be. Which it was.
Bill was one of my best friends. And the people he brought into our lives became family, blood-connected, for life. I'm not going to miss him, really, because he's that deep a part of me. Whenever I find myself on some timeless adventure, following my impulse down the road, Bill is right there with me. I just wish he was around to take another turn at the wheel now and then.
from Bernie DeKoven, funsmith
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