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I love seasonality, the tick of change through the year as the dials of light, heat and humidity are constantly played with, but the most comfortable setting is always this time of year. Cold nights, hot sun in the day, crickets the size of my thumb, the slide of green leaves into the warm riot of oranges, reds, yellows, tans and purples. I like it when the contrast is high, big swings in temp, the crisp bite to the air pairing with the lowering angle of the sun.
I have to be careful of the seasonal downswing, though. Another contrast, the environment so delightful and the mind becoming damp and crawly with unease. It becomes more important to come correct, to seek out extra sleep and extra sunlight, to devour a wide harvest of good things, to keep moving through the cold and the dark instead of succumbing to the desire for hibernation. So many times when we refer to balance, we picture a delicate status quo, a tower we can build of little cups of half&half and then try not to knock over with our spoon, or a house of cards vulnerable to the brownian motion of the air.
I like to picture a close shot of someone on a high wire, their brain calculating millions of forces among thousands of points, their sole contact against gravity the few inches of their foot against a rope, but that foot a delicate instrument of muscle and bone, and every inch upward through calf and thigh and hip and back, to the umbrella in their outstretched hand is an orchestration of contact points and delicate adjustments and tremendous power focused to purpose.
Sometimes balance is a shitload of work that looks like nothing on the outside.
And when the focus is lost, balance is also the tumble down into the net, the dive and curve and tumble of landing safely to crawl across springy webbing, to flip feet back onto the ground and climb back aloft.
I have to be careful of the seasonal downswing, though. Another contrast, the environment so delightful and the mind becoming damp and crawly with unease. It becomes more important to come correct, to seek out extra sleep and extra sunlight, to devour a wide harvest of good things, to keep moving through the cold and the dark instead of succumbing to the desire for hibernation. So many times when we refer to balance, we picture a delicate status quo, a tower we can build of little cups of half&half and then try not to knock over with our spoon, or a house of cards vulnerable to the brownian motion of the air.
I like to picture a close shot of someone on a high wire, their brain calculating millions of forces among thousands of points, their sole contact against gravity the few inches of their foot against a rope, but that foot a delicate instrument of muscle and bone, and every inch upward through calf and thigh and hip and back, to the umbrella in their outstretched hand is an orchestration of contact points and delicate adjustments and tremendous power focused to purpose.
Sometimes balance is a shitload of work that looks like nothing on the outside.
And when the focus is lost, balance is also the tumble down into the net, the dive and curve and tumble of landing safely to crawl across springy webbing, to flip feet back onto the ground and climb back aloft.
