the view from down there

On my way into the dance studio this weekend, I had this feeling that I wanted to fly, to catch as much air as I could, to soar. And while for a good long part of one song I slowly made my way up to the top of the pole and placed both my hands on the ceiling, for a second wanting to push clear through, I spent the majority of the time moving on the ground. And it was good.

Later in the weekend, I sat on the floor of a loft and watched a newborn fly in the arms of his parents. His dad turning him out to face all the friends and family there, he watched us and we him. He was held high with no thought as to how he got there. Why would he think about it? I have no recollection of being airborne as a baby, though I do have flashes of memory around crawling. No concrete thoughts, just random things, like the time I was on all fours in our backyard and found a snail, which I popped into my mouth. My mom, who was watering, saw it go in, screamed and turned the hose on me. I suppose I was so surprised by being hit with a forceful stream of cold water that I either spit it out or swallowed it. I don't remember which. You can find a lot of good stuff down there on the ground.

Which is why I suppose I feel the need to return back there, metaphorically speaking. I've never fully appreciated until now the cycle of movement we humans go through. Just because I was held in arms, learned to crawl, toddled to my feet and walked, then started full-on running, is no reason to think that I'll be always upright in my emotional life. Lately I realize that as much as I just want to be held—held up, held down, held close—there's some pull to the ground that is actually keeping me still so I can hold things on my own. One thing in particular I'm learning to hold: my anger. I always thought it was too hot, that the burn would be irreparable. But I touched it, and I didn't get first, second or third degree. I realized I could take it out, look at it, put it in my mouth and taste it, wrap my hands around it, show it to the person who needed to see it and then let it go. It's not so bad. If I can hold and express my anger, then I'm about ready to do the same with my joy, too. I know I've been equally as terrified of taking that emotion out and letting it free. Jeez, what a scene it might make. Or...it might be fun...to make a scene.

As I watched all the kids around me this weekend, I saw how emotions move through so quickly. I always forget that. What is laughter turns into tears and back again in no time. And it's all so awesomely selfish. No concept quite yet of what's going on with others. My mother told me another story about when I had just learned to walk, we were going down to the corner and I broke away from her and ran into the street. And everytime she'd take a step closer to me, I'd go closer toward the cars all the while looking at her, laughing and, no doubt, playing. She was frantic: should she stand stock-still and hope I'd come back? Or make a dash for me and hope the cars would stop and she could grab me? Eventually I came back close enough for her to snatch me up in her arms.

And all my life I've made a habit of walking into traffic, as it were. And I'd smile and make a game out of it, not truly paying attention to what was going on inside me, whether I wanted to be there or not. Whether it was good for me or not. I'd just move toward the shiny objects and figure I'd worry about the feelings later. Just about now I'm realizing how absolutely necessary it is to feel the feelings, to see the view from the ground up. To sit still and take notice. Who knows, maybe I'll find some nice Escargot.