There's an apparatus at the park. A giant, steel umbrella with the bones of a canopy, which spins.
I have no idea how it's supposed to be used.
But I know how Judah likes to use it.
He is lifted up, grabs on to the rim of the canopy, and throws his body in one direction.
Because of the tilt, the climb up is slow. If he threw himself hard enough, the weight of his little body will hold him momentarily at the top before the spinning starts again. This time on a downward spiral, fast, fast, fast.
That's how my thoughts have been lately.
Throw my whole weight into it. Hands gripped, knuckles white, legs dangling. My whole self: doing my best to create momentum.
There's a reason we should not stay in one place.
There's a reason we should not let our lives grow stale.
I am here today, taking my feet and knees and thighs and hips and pushing them against air and angle and the truth is...
We do the hard work for the feeling of relief when our weight is matched with speed.
Something happened and because my world has gotten small, I thought it would never happen again.
Like light breaking through the dark curtains, when the sun breaks through the clouds.
Something familiar, but forgotten, returns. And it took so long for it to come back, your first instinct is maybe to chase.
But your instinct is wrong here. Because while it is good, it is not rare. While it is what you need, in part, it is not limited in supply.
You just let your world get small.
And the weight and angle and grip carry you higher and you travel the circumference and remember.
I know how to do that.
I had forgotten. I had forgotten that what light broke through the darkness this time, was not new. It was not special, in the sense it was like none other. I had found it before. I'd find it again. I had just let my world get too small.
Deep breath, pause at the top. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as I wait, legs dangling, the momentum does its job and