Cartwheels In The Air 🤸♀️
And other ways to stay connected with your magic
It’s funny, the things that can hold meaning.
Right now, I count 9 bruises on my legs. All above knee height. All the size and shape of a 50 cent coin. All varying shades of blue-turning-yellow (except for a glorious deep aubergine one that’s been there so long I feel like I should give it a name).
Even the klutz variable can’t explain all of them.
It’s almost as if 4 sharp-horned caprines have been squabbling over who gets to munch on my shirt and/or scrape against my legs like I’m a scratching post.
Oh, wait…that’s precisely what happened.
Apparently I bruise easily.
When I was 5, I caught my heel in the door on the way to Highland dance class (voilà, the klutz variable in action). My poor teacher, trying to stop my bawling, sat me down and counted every bluish contusion on my knobbly-kneed little legs. I think she gave up at 14.
Which is quite an achievement, considering I was a wee bit shorter back then. And, no pet goats either!
Now, imagine what it would have been like if, instead of Highland dancing, my parents had enrolled me in a circus acrobatics class.
🤯
Instead of performances standing decoratively (and safely) in my tartan on the edge of the stage, I’d be somersaulting across it. If I were a bit older, I’d be cartwheeling. Older still, I’d be climbing lengths of fabric to the ceiling. And then, naturally, doing somersaults and cartwheels IN THE AIR!
I know this because I went to the circus showcase at Freedom2Fly. And I’m certain (behind the concentrating faces) everyone was having a blast.
I would’ve been.
I also would’ve been in the running for the “Most Bruises” certificate. 😆
But here’s the thing. To someone else they’re just bruises. But to me, they would have been marks of pride.
It’s like the moment when you go to put on your dance shoes and realise spending several hours a week sliding and spinning around a dancefloor gives you excellent calluses on the balls of your feet. Which is awesome—because it means you’re a Dancer!
Or when you’re clinging to a wall by 3 and a half fingernails and realise it doesn’t hurt like it used to—you’re a Rock Climber!
Or when you dream in French and (whether you understood a word or not), you’re a French Speaker.
Or when you’re digging the 1,026th speck of raspberry thorn out of your thumb, you’re a Gardener.
Or when you get bruises from your overly friendly goats and you don’t mind because you’re a Goat Person. (Except that time Ash accidentally kapowed me on the funny bone…that was less amusing.)
But it’s more than simply evidence of an accomplishment.
Souvenirs like these evoke how it feels to fly around a dancefloor. Push and reach for the next hold. Bask in the poetry of language. Smell the thyme from your garden in the summer air. Be greeted by happy “aaahs” as the goats race across the paddock to see you.
They’re connections to who you are, to your magic, to your story.
Here’s what I’ve been thinking. As an artist, I create a different sort of souvenir. More enduring. Less awkward when wearing summer skirts. Just as evocative. Still keeps you connected with your magic.
Sure, to someone else it’s just art on the walls. But to you?
That art makes coming home like stepping into your own story.
Even if that story is acrobatics-less (although, if Biff the Bruise ever needs buddies, I know just what to do!)
Your fellow dancer, rock climber, French speaker, gardener, goat person,
Ailene