Whimsical Frame

Rian practiced handstands on the back lawn this morning, beneath the pear and apple trees that, twinlike, insist on reblooming after a precipitous pruning.

My fingers spread long and seperated in the grass, a rotting pear decomposing not far from Rian's thumb. Newly seeded grass struggling in the shade and bees tasting hostas in the puddles of sunlight.

Rian stares for a long time between hands before gaining the courage to go UP. How I dislike being upsidedown. The world does not feel different. The pear is still pungent, the blades of grass soft and sharp at one time.

But, upsidedown, RIAN is different. Wobbly. Unable to move as I see fit. Thoughts are less coherent as blood rushings from toes to head. And the heart begins to pound.

What are we, how are we different, lacking or free, when we lose control? Through fear or passion or disaster or simply the turning of the body? And should we not all experience that loss of Self here and there throughout life, does it not cement more firmly who we are?

For the Rian sitting in a calculated, glittering pose at a Gala table is the in truth the same Rian who quivers and wobbles and falls in an ungainly sprawl across rotted pear and damp grass.