Heels over Head

One of my fondest childhood memories recalls summer evenings, turning cartwheels in my front yard for hours on end. The smells of warm earth and Carolina pine perfumed the air as hot, humid afternoons turned into hot, humid evenings.


Fireflies filled the audience, bullfrogs sang the opening anthem, and the moon and stars provided spotlights as I entered my stage.

The rush of adrenaline as my arms shot in the air...

The hop as I leaned back on my left leg, kicking up my right…

The bend and downward motion followed by open palms stroking

solid ground as “up” became “down” and “down” became

up” for a split second…

Going heels-over-head gave me the sense that I controlled time and space. I could be satisfied only by total exhaustion. As dusk turned to dark, Mom called me to come inside. I grudgingly went, pushing aside my addiction, comforted in knowing that tomorrow would bring hours of opportunity to satisfy this passion to flip.

What was so special about these “sideways” somersaults? More than just a simple childish activity, cartwheels signified mastery of my body and, in a small way, mastery of my universe. Gravity and human anatomy insisted, “Stand upright! Keep your feet on the ground!” but deep inside a voice cried, “Fly.” Like Wilbur and Orville, I was obsessed with defying natural law.

Specialists know that babies crawl, then walk, then run, in the normal pattern of human development. Surely, turning cartwheels lies somewhere further down that same continuum.

I’ll never forget one cartwheel I turned. Home from college for the weekend, I went out to the front yard with my younger brother. I struck the pose, clowning around, and without hesitation took off for the spin. As my body lifted in the air, something felt wrong and I landed with a “thud.” Shocked that I had failed, I tried again, without success. I went inside, humbled, yet assuring myself that it was just a bad day and I would try again tomorrow. After all, it had been months since I’d attempted such a feat.

When I awoke the next morning, my arms, legs, and back ached. It dawned on me these pains resulted from the failed cartwheels. Then and there, I had my first glimpse of the Grim Reaper. At eighteen years of age, no longer could I do the things that came so easily as a child. What was next? My love of bicycling, the thrill of climbing trees, the joy of jumping rope?

Now, I’m in my 50's (Wow, that’s hard to believe when I see it in print!) Is my glass half empty or half full? One positive thing about being this age is I don’t feel I have to prove anything to anyone. I’m fairly content. Yet, I wonder… can I still turn a cartwheel?

The sensible mother and grandmother in me chides, “You’ll be sorry—and look foolish, too.” The risk-taker-woman in me prods, “Go for it—but stretch for one hour beforehand, pad yourself, pad the ground, and make sure no one is looking.”

My inner child squeals, “Fly!”

I just might.