A lesson in falling.

I tripped and fell the other day.

I was walking down the street, about to cross to the other side. I stopped, looked both ways, began to put one foot in front of the other when my toe caught the edge of a concrete storm drain. I could feel my fall reflexes kicking in, a weird sensation as I hadn't used them in awhile.

Hands out, don't lean too far forward, you'll tumble into the street. Take the knee, it's better than your face.

I was on the ground, grains of concrete stuck in my hands. I looked around, not a car or person in sight. As I stood, I gave myself a once over.

Dust off your hands. Good, your pants aren't ripped. Dust those off, too. Jesus, Miranda.

I continued on my walk, the throb of my injures invoking sympathy for children who bawl first and ask questions later after a tumble. Then I laughed out loud.

I've tripped many a time since learning to walk. I’ve gotten taller and more mature and adultish.

I’ve done thrilling things: jumped fences, kissed someone new, climbed water towers on rooftops in tall cities but I hadn't actually fallen in so long. I could feel the moisture of the scab forming on my knee. I could see the scrapes on my hands. Instead of taking me to a place of pain, I was taken to the playground of my childhood: exuberant, enthusiastic, joyful.

When we’re learning how to walk upright, there’s never a question to it. It’s like, ‘Oh, I’m crawling, now I gotta walk. Now I’m walking, time to run.’

When we are learning how to walk we aren’t zeroed in on how many times we fall, we don’t think that we’ll never get it right, we don’t agonize over the next time we might maybe possibly fall. Linoleum floors and sun heated blacktops were not fear inducing spaces.

Our desire to move, to jump, to run, to foursquare, to hopscotch, to kickball wasn’t determined by our fear of injury or our fear of the embarrassment of falling.

Now when I play I write blog posts, recite poetry, read books and pursue various projects. However, I’ve been afraid to play. I have logic at my disposal that tells me that Yo-Yo Ma didn’t become an exemplary cellist by netflix-and-chillin all the time.

Yet, here I am.

I have this deep sense that I am failing to act and since I am failing now, I will fail forever. I avoid picking up a pen, telling myself the words won’t come out right. The (excellent) acoustics in my bathroom go unused because I have told myself my voice is wrong for singing my favorite song in the shower. I am afraid of failing, so afraid that I have been refusing to act at all.

Fear is not reasonable or logical.

Fear is supposed to interfere. Fear is supposed to stop us. Because with action comes consequences and consequences cost.

But I continued down the street laughing, the sky clear and blue, tears in my eyes. I choose to act despite my fear everyday just by walking. It took this moment, but it reminded me we all trip and fall. And when we do, we have a choice: cry and sit there or cry and get up, dust off and play some more.

I had fallen. It hurt. And I chose. I chose to cry and get up, dust off and play some more.

It reminded me of recess. I valued playtime as a child because I got to do what I wanted. I would swing and sing songs, I would hang upside down from monkey bars, I would race and laugh and be silly. My falls were my badges of pride. Calloused hands and scraped knees were signs of freedom.

Free to choose, free to do, and free to err.

Of course I am going to sit down to write and the words won’t come out right. Of course I am going to sing a song and my skills will not match those of the artist I admire. Of course I am going to walk down the street and I am still going to fall.

I am human. I am free to err. And I will.

I am also free to play more. I am free to get better at failing. And falling.