Cartwheels and dew.

Tonight, watching one of my TAs try to do cartwheels after dinner, I decided it was time to give it another try myself. Years and years ago, I wanted to be able to do cartwheels, wanted to be able to wheel over the grass with that much controlled energy and extension. I watched her a handful of times--and what was startling was the upsurge of happy anxiety I felt in those moments of watching, interplaying with the yearning for motion that I felt in my core, the way I could feel my muscles twitching in emulation of her joyful clumsiness; and what was also startling was how worried I suddenly was that I'd find my bones too brittle and my muscles too slack to do the work of propelling me through the air or, more likely, of landing me safely aground--and then I decided it was my turn. And I didn't do a pretty job, and yes, after a few tries I started falling out of verticality right onto my left thigh (which I'm fully expecting to see black and blue tomorrow). But the first couple were, miraculously, almost something like the cartwheels I was never able to do as a child. In not much time at all, all four of us were up and taking turns trying to pinwheel our bodies through the deepening dusk. By the time we all collapsed back to the lawn, bats were skittering over the sky over our heads. Stars and planets were beginning to appear all around. And when I lay back on the grass--to be at eye-level with the grass! when was I last there?--I could see that the evening dew had materialized, drop by drop, a drop for every blade within sight.