The handstand theory
Two days ago, Clef grew from a team to a company. Today, I turned 22. As with every new year, I’m entering the unknown: I’m terrified of what I don’t know I don’t know.
In a throwback to my youth, last summer I started doing handstands. Rotate hands to the ground. Swing legs above head. Hope to hit the magical balance point. Awkwardly tumble down. Repeat. As the year has gone on, I’ve joined a gymnastics class and nailed front-flips, but I always come back to the handstand.
There’s something magical about it. Every attempt is different and there’s no single moment I need to nail: a handstand is a prolonged struggle to find the perfect balance.
Falling out of a handstand
There are two ways to fall out of a handstand: down the way I came up or over the top into the unknown.
When I started, I always fell down the way I came up.
My body knew what to expect: if I put less momentum into my rotation, I could fall back down onto my feet. It was comfortable.
Gradually, I learned how to fall over the top: tuck your head to your chest, roll out onto your back, pop back up onto your feet.
Confident in my ability to tumble out safely, I started getting better.
Finding the balance point
How much momentum should go into the rotation? Which muscles should I tense when? How can I concentrate when all my brain can think is I’m Upside Down Oh My Wow?
When I prepared to fall back the way I came, balance felt perpetually out of reach. Every time I was almost there, fear sunk in and I drifted towards my feet: back into my comfort zone.
Comfortable with falling over the top, my body let go. I embraced the impending fall and uncovered the truth: I always find balance a little further into the unknown than I expect.
Hitting the balance point, time stops. Calves tighten, hands tense, toes point, spine goes taut along my core. For a moment, anxiety slips away.
The handstand theory of life
There are two ways to fall down in life: backwards and forwards.
Falling back is always the easy route: when confronted with discomfort, I return to my familiar places, seek out the known quantities in my life and console myself that they are still there.
Falling forward is terrifying: I reach out to grasp something and no matter the result, I tumble into the unfamiliar territory.
As with handstands, I need to be comfortable tumbling into the unknown to find the balance that is always a little further than I’d expect.
Thanks to Jesus, Elandis, and Rojelio for teaching me how to find balance with my body, to Cassidy for encouraging me to write this, and to all my friends and family for making me feel comfortable hurtling into the unknown.
