When I was a kid I used to spin around as fast as I could until I fell down to the ground. I would open my eyes and look up at the sky to watch the whole world spinning around me. In my innocence, I knew that this was the way for me to witness something that we normally couldn’t: I became one with the ground, and I could see the sky move past as me and the world turned as one.
I wish I still had that innocence. I wish I still believed that there was a way for me to lay back and bear witness to the bigger things that we never get to see. I wish I still had the courage to purposefully spin so wildly out of control because it is fun, yet always know that there is something hard and concrete and reliable that will support me when I collapse.
I’m laying on the ground now, feeling the support of the earth beneath me, and looking up at the same sky. But, it’s not moving anymore: it’s still and stoic and steady. There is no magic and no unquestionable trust and no certainty that the world is still turning, with me right where I’m supposed to be. All I have is the memory that I used to know what it feels like to have such unwavering faith and certainty.
When I did stop spinning?
Maybe it’s time to start doing it again.
Maybe there is some magic to it.
Maybe the magic is all within my control – I just need to let it out.