Do any of us remember our childhoods?
Let’s be honest for one second here. Elementary school is mostly a blur of bright florescent lights and those cold tile floors embedded with asbestos, which we avoided by sticking yellow tennis balls on the feet of our chairs. This mortal threat was introduced to our impressionable minds by our 1st grade teacher. She had terrible respiratory issues and had us write to the city to request updated school buses. We didn’t get them, but they did introduce the zero emission metro fleet. Ms. F announced the new and improved city buses as though we had made them happen, beaming with pride that our letters with abstract bus renditions had tipped the needle towards completing the clean bus project.
I can’t remember one single lesson plan, but I remember this distinct brush with chemically-borne toxicity, the concept of death and the joy of creating change. (Okay, 1st grade was huge?)
The thing is, we impact our surroundings every day, whether we are away of it or not. Our being is not passive, no matter how few waves we try to make. Our very existence influences the fabric of time and space.
One thing I can remember from elementary school was the separate playground for the littlest kids, because well, we were very little. It had a sandbox and a giant metal cube structure, like a giant 3D grid. It couldn’t have been more than 10 feet tall but felt like a skyscraper. At recess, kids would swarm the cube, looping limbs around the metal that would leave you smelling of the stuff for the rest of the day. I didn’t spend much time on the cube, preferring to simply eat my snack (because food is life) but one day I got up the courage to climb the damn thing. It was towards the end of recess, so no one witnessed my ascent. Suddenly I was at the top.
I had never been that high up before, it was a full perspective shift on this playground that took up so much of my world. If it was small, then must I be even smaller? What does it mean to feel insignificant? Maybe this whole school thing isn’t much to worry about?
This bourgeoning epiphany was cut short by the horrifying realization that I could not get down. In classic me fashion, I had gone for the climb without thinking. Yes I had reached (relatively) great heights, but I couldn’t stay there forever. In fact, now the whole playground—which of course we now know was very small—was empty. Recess was over and I was still mounted atop the cube, my feet swinging above the abyss.
A stream of panic rose up from my stomach, locking down my throat. My purple leggings slid across the thin metal bars as I tried to wiggle my way down, yet my palms were slick with sweat, rendering my grip useless. My mind swirled as I imagined a life lived from atop the metal cube. Food would have to be catapulted up and I’d see my parents only from a distance. It might get lonely, but I was used to being alone. At least I would hold the truth about our speck-like existence.
Suddenly I heard the teacher’s aid call my name from across the playground. In one startled motion, I turned toward her and lost my balance. My cotton leggings offering no traction, I fell from the top of the cube and through the center of the 3D grid, my head and flailing arms barely missing the many bars. In an instant I was on the ground, flat on my back with the wind knocked out of me. The aid rushed over, yelling at me to breathe. Luckily there was a spongy black cover between me and the concrete, which allowed me to walk away from the fall with nothing but a lifelong confirmation that caution is the way.
Nowadays the playground houses a giant jungle gym made of friendly colorful plastic. The metal structure was ripped from the earth long ago, along with anything that offered both risk and reward. I don’t think my fall was the final straw for the cube, but I like to think I had an impact. The superintendent’s office probably put a tally mark on a board and one day they hit the maximum of accidents that can occur before an apparatus is deemed dangerous. Who knows how long that took.
Yesterday, I spent time doing a closing practice for the year, going through each month, recording what was enjoyable and what was difficult. It struck me that the year has felt like a lot of drops in a pond. This makes it harder to form a narrative as there wasn’t a tidal wave that took up a lot of space. Instead it’s been a year of long dives into questions. Some I have found answers for, others are still very much wide open. One thing I must constantly remember as I go into 2023: starting new things is not a mark of failure, it’s a sign of hope. It’s an active belief in yourself. It’s knowing that you can expand and receive and find yourself to encompass all that you do, which just so happens to be everything.
My playground fall was just one of many. My life is just one of many, gathering a handful of stories that create a patchwork of existence. At my grouchiest, I long to fade into obscurity. But obscurity is not a real option for any of us. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. I can’t foresee the impact of all those actions, but I can set out to be an electric drop in the waters of expansion.
See you in the new year.
xx
James
before you go, a kind and gentle reminder to order your calendar for 2023