Spinning

When I was little, I’d lie against the ground and flatten the grass, except for the tiny tips of shards that poked my backside. I’d spread my arms to each side and be still and quiet. Then, I’d close my eyes and try to feel the spinning of the Earth.

In the still and quiet moments, I could feel it, or imagine that I did. The hillside in our yard in West Virginia was the best place to lie. The steep sloping, slipping feeling—oh and the breeze crossing my body, lifting the wisps of my hair—always helped. I’d even do it when friends were with me—after we rolled down the hill in a human sandwich, while we rested before the next round—but I didn’t tell them.

Maybe it was my brain winding down from action to static. Maybe my concentration—my wishing it were so—convinced my body it had found the slowest movement and was riding it. But I chose to believe it was the Earth’s spinning, that I was honing into the great movement, that I melded in and became part of the turning planet.