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Played pool right after work at Thalassa, a downtown Berkeley bar, with my friend Shelby Monday night.

I’ve done this a couple of times recently. There’s a very mixed age group of patrons at this pool hall. There are older men, most of whom have the tweedy air of Cal professors, alongside younger 20-somethings – mainly guys, but some women. The older men seem to take their time with their shots and have a smooth, almost loving stroke. While the younger players seem more to relish the power and violence of the cue’s kinetic energy released in a burst.

Shelby is an accomplished pool player, with her own two-piece cue. She kisses balls gently into the pockets while she herself is loud and boisterous. A wonderful contrast. I myself am a below-adequate amateur. I, for instance, can’t imagine what it takes to learn the angles when hitting balls off the rails. It must involve muscle memory, like shooting free throws in basketball. Once you do it enough, it isn’t about calculating, it’s about intuiting and doing.

When I was a kid, we used to frequent a pool hall on Kissena Boulevard in Flushing. It was on the top floor of a row of storefronts. There were lots of Asian kids there, since Flushing was evolving even then into a predominantly Asian neighborhood. I knew nothing of the intricacies of the game – like most things from my childhood, I did what seemed to work and picked up what I could as I went along.

My favorite aspect of the game? The oddities. Like using the bridge. That seemed like such a strangely acceptable crutch to me, as though a baseball player might be allowed to wield two bats if the occasion called for it. Pool seemed exotic because of these rules and much less straightforward then the sports I played every day, like basketball or baseball.

I’ve come to realize that one way to become a better pool player is to crouch low and see the table from the perspective of the balls. Very few games are like that. In most cases, it doesn’t matter at all whether you see things at ball level. You just do, react.

Maybe that’s why I’ve come to embrace pool again after all these years. It’s no longer a frenetic game of youth but rather the studied art of multiple perspectives.

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redwoods1Visited Muir Woods for the first time this weekend.

I sensed it was my cathedral (albeit one in which people were walking around snapping photos – kind of like an outdoor St. Patrick’s), a place infused with grace. I am not a religious person, and in fact have tried over the years to puzzle through and articulate what it is that I believe. I used to say that I believed in people, that I was a secular humanist. But I wonder if what I actually believe in is redwoods.

It’s not like Muir Woods is a place of pristine nature far removed from society. There were tons of tourists – including me and my family – wandering the well-maintained paths. I did wish that more people took their time to look up and marvel at the crowns of these massive trees, or that they were more reverential and less talkative. But actually it was fine. Ultimately, I cared only about the little mule deer nibbling grass, just feet away, the late-afternoon light slanting through the trees in an almost stupidly picturesque way, the textured reddish bark, the cross-section of the 1,000-year-old trunk with its astonishing historical markers (“Charlemagne’s death”; “Revolutionary War”).

As a kid, the trees I saw and played on sprouted out of cement sidewalks. Most often, they were oaks or maples, and their extensive root systems buckled the surrounding concrete. So of course we’d ride our bikes as close to the trees as possible to feel the bounce over that uneven cement reverbrate through tire and leg and body. I’m sure the trees were choked over the years by New York City soot and car exhaust and stunted in their growth. My memory of them is that they were worn and tired.

One tree, though, stands out. The Weeping Beech, in Flushing – where I grew up. It had long, wispy tendrils that drooped down to the ground. I always thought the name perfectly suited that tree. As a kid, I knew it as the place in the middle of Bowne Park where we would run to for shade on those unending summer days full of play.

A few months ago, I was in Flushing, visiting my dad. I happened to walk past the spot where the Weeping Beech once stood and saw a memorial signpost that said the tree I knew as a child was planted in 1847, the first of its kind in this country. A man named Samuel Bowne Parsons brought a cutting of the tree from Belgium and later provided many of the original trees for Central Park.

In 1966, the tree was given landmark status – the first living landmark in New York City. The tree died – the sign didn’t say from what – in 1998, though it is believed that all Weeping Beech trees in the US are descended from this first one.

(Incidentally, John Bowne – namesake of the park and my elementary school when we weren’t referring to it as P.S. 20 – was one of the first practicing Quakers in this country and stood up against religious intolerance to the point where he was jailed and sent back to Holland to stand trial for his beliefs.)

John Muir wrote that “no temple made with hands can compare with Yosemite.” And I say no temple made with hands can compare with the California Redwood. Or, for that matter, the Weeping Beech.

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