Dropping Your Way Through Life

I heard a phrase yesterday. A co-worker was talking to me about her life as a gymnast. To be honest, I don't really remember what she was saying. What I remember is this phrase, "You spend your life falling off the beam and getting up and falling off the beam again." That resonated with me. This idea that we use sports metaphors to describe life isn't anything new, but this one hit home.

I've been missing my guard world lately. For the first time in decades I'm not teaching or a part of a design team. I'm just me. I'm doing me. I'm being the me I've waited a lifetime to be. When you finally reach that point, you start to look at what you have in this amazing way. And when you do that, you find a sense of loneliness. You long for times when you seemed more free or times when you felt more confident. The funny thing about life, is that the more you get what you want, the more you start to lose your confidence. People want and expect more. People don't have empathy for you. People are out to destroy you. So with the expectations, makes me want to be cocooned inside a gym, wrapped in a flag, awaiting for it to open. And when it opens, I want my friends on the other side with a cocktail. I want those people we performed with and taught with to be standing there with my double vodka madras in hand to say, "Hey Girl! What cha doin?"

I've spent a year in the gymnastics world working on safety for the athletes. I've learned a lot and with the learning...comes the drops. I was wondering when that co-worker was talking about falling off the beam, how many times I've dropped a rifle or sabre. I wonder how many thousands of drops I've witnessed as an instructor. Thousands! Thousands of opportunities for me to beat myself up or a performer I taught to look to me for the next, "Do it again." When an athletes days are over as a performer or gymnast or baseball player or football player, I wonder how many realize that every one of those drops and falls would eventually turn them into a person that would find that life is just a series of drops, falls, fumbles, and strikeouts.

When I performed with the Pride of Cincinnati, I hated rifle quads. I don't know why. For some reason I couldn't get the rotation right. I could get triples and fives, but those damn quads. On the finals video you can see this one performer off in the distance throw a lopsided 4ish, maybe fiveish? It's a terrible Shelba moment. I don't know how many people see it on the video, but I know it's there. I caught it, though.  I caught that bitch out of the air and kept moving. It's not a pretty toss and it's not a drop. But I kept moving.

Well holy crap! Isn't that just the epitome for life. "Not quite great, but not a tragedy."

Recently, I've had a rough time. Single mom. Career that is in the public eye. A system that is being built, while we are expected to already have it built. Money. God I hate money. And then there's the ever present...SEX LIFE. Where the hell did that go? Oh right. I got old.

But lately, I've just been thinking about the drops. I've been thinking about every time I dropped and picked it up again and simply, "Did it again." I was never a good rifle. I was a great sabre, but rifle? I was moderate to not so moderate. I tolerated it as necessary equipment of the sport. When I was in gymnastics I hated the vault. But there it was, every meet I was expected to perform. Rifle is life to me right now. I know it's there and I have to get through it. I'm going to pick it up every day, because I have to get better at it. Sitting in the corner however, is the sabre. The sabre is my love. It's light in my hands and rotates around my body like a flower dancing in the wind. It's getting a little old, but it's still there. It's my self esteem and my identity. I've lost the sabre for the moment, but I'm hoping to soon find it ready to dance in my hands, with the beauty of rainbow that surprises us on a hot summer day.

Then there's the flag. The flag is my core. It's my soul. It's been with me all along and was the first to call to me. It was the first to be spun and is able to change it's beauty just by changing the fabric. It changes with my mood. In my life, the flag is my friends. They are always there. They have always been there. They are the ones who I call late at night and don't worry if I wake them up. They are the ones that know me and have always known me. They are the ones that know my passwords. They are the people who know my bullshit and put up with it, until it's time to not put up with it anymore. They are my tough love. They are my history. They are blood.

It's interesting when you classify people as your blood, as they are the ones who have seen you cry and give up on yourself. They are the ones that literally say, "Stop your bullshit. You're better than this." It's the flag. It's your friends who have seen you drop and fall and get back up and say, "Bitch, do it again."

Lately, as I've spent a year in another sport, I've learned how much I love the one I come from. I see the people. I hear the music. I remember the fun times and the outright shenanigans. There were arguments and drama. But it was there. It was all a part of my amalgam of an equipment drop that helped me pick up and try again. The best thing we have as an activity is the ability to drop. I would say the same for any other person that's spends a lifetime throwing the football, swinging at the baseball, or trying for that perfect foul shot.

Recently, I was beating myself up. It doesn't matter why, but let's just say that the negative Shelba had taken over the positive Shelba and beat her to a bloody pulp. The positive Shelba gave up and said things like, "I'm nothing. I've always been nothing." She forgot where she came from and the rifle that had given her the tough times, the sabre that showed her how confident and great she really is, and the flag that was her base and her friends. I forgot it all. I forgot about the many drops and the outright failures. I forgot how many times I walked into critique expecting to be told how much we sucked, and instead heard, "Wow." I forgot about the friends who had always stood by my side and would do anything for me. I forgot about our collective history of WGI's and DCI's of late night laughter and tears through alcohol strewn Marriotts.

Dropping our rifle is important. We have to fail. We have to beat ourselves up. We have to hear the phrase, "Do it again." For every time a David Baker tells you to do it again, is a time in life you'll need to stand up strong, whether it's in the office at work as you fight for your ideas, with your child's teacher as you fight for their rights, or with your partner when you just simply need to leave it all behind. All of those "Pick it up and do it agains," will be your savior.

You know, I've said this a lot over the years. We are so lucky. We have been given this gift of art and friendship. We've also been given the reality of failure and with that failure, we learn to pick the damn thing up and keep going. The drill is moving at a tempo of 178. You are on the move and there goes your rifle. It went to the left. You went to the right, but you still got it. Your recovered and threw the next toss...on time. Some people saw your error. You might even get yelled at for it later, but you kept going. You dropped and recovered. This is life's metaphor. This is our metaphor for those of us who chose the pageantry arts as life's art. Sometimes, I believe it chose us. It chose us so one day we would know that it was with us all along. It's like the angel on your shoulder telling you it's ok. "It's o.k. to pick it up and try again."

Lately I've been dropping. But let me tell you, "My recovery is one count or less and girl...I'm a diva."

And so are you.
Thank you for dropping. It makes us all better.