Saturday, November 7, 2009
I never learned to do a cartwheel. It wasn't for lack of trying. I tried for years. I watched taller, bigger girls turn them through green grass. Their bodies graceful upside down.
But not me. I ran and placed my hands just right and kicked up my feet only to fall down. Gravity has never been my friend.
If the devil is in the details, God is surely in the cartwheel.
Even now, when I have those months where I re-embrace yoga and vegetarianism (forgetting that I'm not one of those people and reaching for Doritos) I can do most of the poses well, but not the ones on my head. The most important ones. My body. Just. Won't.
My girls can't do them either. Tess can hula hoop three hoops at once for five minutes. Rosy can sail in regattas, and Grace... she can tantrum better than I ever could. (Quite a skill....) They don't seem to notice that they are missing the cartwheel gene. I'm glad. They might hold me responsible. I don't want to be the one who stopped their flight.
But in my mind, and on the pages I am doing cartwheels. Cartwheels for my life, my freedom, my comfort. Cartwheels that I made it this far without much damage. Cartwheels for decisions and for love and light and lingering laziness that makes me who I am and not some other mother.
Cartwheels as I watch my friends realize their dreams and without any shade of green accept the fact that mine are just around the corner.
Now... If only I could actually do a cartwheel or two, I'd make it around the corner quicker!