Spinning

Spinning used to be fun.

At the park in my hometown, there was a green metal disc, situated just between the sand diggers and the swings. It wasn’t the main attraction of the park, but it was always my last stop before leaving for home. I would stretch my body across the shiny metal, extend my arms at the sides, and plead, “Spin me! Spin me!” As the disc sped around and around, I fixed my eyes on the sky, watching the clouds and trees mingle together, dancing above me in a crazy blur. Over and over, faster and faster, again and again. The wind streaked across my face, the world seemed to be moving at record speeds, and I was at the center of it all erupting in girlish giggles.

Eventually the spinning slowed, the images around me became distinguishable, and the whisks of wind died down.

I dangled my legs over the side and hopped off. The ride had ended. A perfect day at the park was now complete, spinning and all.

But that was over 20 years ago.

Now, I’d just look at the green, metal disc and laugh. I’m not getting on that thing. Considering I get dizzy after just one round of “Ring around the Rosy” with my niece, I don’t think my stomach would survive the ride I once loved.

Dizziness has a greater power now. After the spinning stops and we “all fall down”, my head keeps moving, and my feet can’t quite form the steps I need. Yes, spinning is no longer fun, so I avoid it whenever possible.

However, ironically last night brought a startling realization. I’ve been spinning for months now. The world is blurring around me as I repeat the same actions over and over – the same mistakes, the same routines, the same mediocrity. I’m lying in the middle of a spinning green disc, and I just let it keep going. Over and over, faster and faster, again and again. I don’t feel good about it, but I know if I stop, I’ll stumble. My mind will be faint. So I spin.

And the problem with spinning is that you go nowhere.