When I was a kid, I loved seeing the world upside down. One
of my favorite pastimes was to recline on my living room floor and stare up at
the ceiling. From this perspective, the ceiling became the floor, and one had
to step up over the door archways to get from room to room. My cluttered
Victorian childhood home seemed incredibly neat and spacious from this upside
down vantage point. I could spend hours just contentedly gazing while my mom
dusted nearby or watched her afternoon soaps.
I also loved to gaze into puddles at the reflected sky. It
was endlessly entertaining to stomp my feet in a puddle and watch the ripples spread
across the reflected clouds. This pastime sometimes led to unexpected
adventure. Once, my best friend and I, on our way home from school on a windy
April day, decided not only to gaze at a giant puddle but to splash our way
into the deep middle and purposely fall on our knees. Cold, wet, and giggling,
we then ran home to tell my mother we had “accidentally fallen,” change into warm
clothes, and treat ourselves to hot chocolate and marshmallows.
I also loved gazing through the stained glass window on the
stairwell. The yard below took on otherworldly qualities, depending upon the
green, blue, or red pane. Another favorite resting spot (in the summer) was to
relax on a small incline on the front yard (back then it seemed like a hill). From
here I could gaze directly up into the leaves of three towering maple trees,
where I could imagine all sorts of fairies and animal shapes in the leaves.
The other day, out on a walk, I came across a few puddles
and stopped with my camera. The experience brought back a rush of memory and
emotion, thinking not just of how easily entertained I was in my childhood, but
also of how willing and ready I was to look at the world from different vantage
points. Today, I have my set opinions, political views, and habits; I’m less
likely to ponder something from another’s perspective, or from the perspective
of a rabbit or bird, for that matter. I see things straight ahead from my 5’3
vantage point, with my glasses or contacts on, and with plenty of thoughts and judgments
spinning about in my mind. I’ve become less willing to splash and muddy my
clothes in a cold, wet puddle, that’s for sure.
However…when I go to yoga class, sometimes I relish the
headstand (or as we say in Iyengar yoga, head balance pose), or the handstand.
Though I can’t stay up for long, I always feel energized, revitalized and
strong when I come down. I guess these inversions are my grown up way of still
playing with perspective. If I can stand on my head, all is not lost. I’m still
able to see the world upside down--in a good way, that is, with fascination
rather than fear, and with trust that I have the power to return to upright
whenever I choose.
