11.2 // Gymnastics
A few weeks ago, Jackson and I enrolled the two older kids in gymnastics on Saturday mornings. At the time, it seemed like a great way to release energy and engage the body during the cold fall and winter months. In hindsight, we probably should have paid more attention to the prerequisite skills.
The first class was a rude awakening. Organized into circuits and routines, the three to five year old kids were expected to complete forward and backward somersaults, handstands, cartwheels, basic balance beam stunts, and other forms of coordination.
All of this on day one.
For perspective, my kids cried in terror simply sitting on a trampoline this past summer.
They don’t know how to roll down a small hill.
Neither can stand on one foot without falling over.
To their own detriment, they have inherited my finesse.
And it was clear that day.
Neither Ben nor Olivia could complete a single task during the entire forty-five minute session.
It was downright painful.
Even the other parents were talking about the two new kids— and we, their parents, were sitting right there!
After that first class, I was not surprised that Benson was not interested in continuing. He is one of the youngest there, and shoot, I was all for saving some money and trying t-ball in the spring!
This was clearly not our forte.
However, it was Olivia’s passion and excitement that surprised me. She loved the class. She said it was the most fun she had ever had. There was no embarrassment or shame or feeling of unworthiness.
Olivia, full of unquestioned confidence, was totally jazzed.
So we had gymnastics again this morning, and I watched her from the observation room with my notebook and Nouwen’s book, The Inner Voice of Love.
Just as before, I winced as she struggled to hop over the balance beam. Other girls rushed by her on the mat and were held up by her hesitancy on the bars. More than once she got stuck with her legs over her head trying a backwards somersault.
As someone so fueled by perfectionism— which is, at the core, fear— I squirmed.
As her mother, I worried for her. I wanted to save her from embarrassing herself or feeling ashamed.
I wondered how long she could keep going, keep trying, even when she fell and tripped and flopped and tied herself into a human pretzel in front of everyone.
It didn’t take long before I found myself taking notes and asking questions:
When Olivia does gymnastics, is she a ‘failure’ because she does each task her own way?
Is she a “failure” because she can’t jump— but she keeps showing up?
Is she a failure if, at the end of this hour, she simply has fun and exudes joy?
My pen scribbled what I noticed about her out there. I could hardly keep up. And as I wrote what I saw, I knew God was speaking to me through Olivia— her heart and her resiliency.
Even when everyone around “can”— she asks questions and speaks up.
She hops and celebrates when she excels at a task, when she can do it on her own, even if she can’t do any other trick.
Correction does not defeat her.
The confusion or unknown does not deter her.
I sat back and felt the Spirit stirring.
This kind of living, what I see in Olivia, is really, really hard for me.
In the fears since my “deconstruction” in 2013, I’ve second guessed myself, doubted, and held back.
I’ve allowed dreams to fade because I’ve feared the opinions of others.
I hide in the shadows of Jackson’s work and the kids’ needs.
I avoid the journey because I fear failure so much.
If simply want to know that everything will be great, that I will be “successful” (whatever that means) in the end.
But, life demands courage.
To live well, we must be brave.
We have to keep showing up and allow ourselves to be seen and heard by those we love and those we fear.
We have to risk sounding stupid or failing or facing judgement.
Beautiful life is not safe.
It seemed Nouwen agreed. I read his reflection called “Trust the Inner Voice”:
“You have to trust the inner voice that shows the way. You know that inner voice. You turn to it often. But after you have heard with clarity what you are asked to do, you start raising questions, fabricating objections, and seeking everyone else’s opinion. Thus you become entangled in countless often contradictory thoughts, feelings, and ideas and lose touch with God in you. And you end up dependent on all the people you have gathered around you.
Only by attending constantly to the inner voice can you be converted to a new life of freedom and joy.”
I jotted down a few final conclusions as Olivia attempted push ups, and I sat back and chuckled. (Because, as you can imagine, they looked absolutely nothing like push-ups.)
Her strength does not have to look like everyone else’s.
(And neither does mine.)This is not a comparison game.
(And neither is life— my life or any one else’s.)Each week, she is growing.
(And so am I.)It is her body, her strength, her joy.
(And so, too, do I have my own body and strength and joy.)
I end the notes with a final thought: maybe this is what being true to yourself looks like.
Maybe it is.
Maybe being true to who you are— who you were made to be, who I was made to be— looks more like showing up for gymnastics and tripping and getting struck and holding up the line.
And it is also smiling and celebrating and asking questions and refusing to apologize for being here.