Prompt – A childhood game that taught you something about power.
P.E. sucked. Full on sucked. It was rarely fun. Inflatable projectiles flying across the gym, ropes that reached for the rafters, laps to check off a box for the that year’s President Physical Fitness Award, and knowing that teams had to be made with no assistance from the teacher. None of it was my cup of tea. But as a card carrying member of Generation X, I was metal-slide strong and did what needed to be done, even when it sucked.
On rainy days, the parachute came out in the gym. It always arrived like a promise. The teacher delivered a speech about cooperation and character while the smell of dust and sweat hung in the air. Sneakers squeaked on the gym floor, and the colors of the parachute glowed, promising community, but the sense of community never really followed. Still, we circled the parachute, fingers hooked around the edge, waiting.
Lift. Lower. Again.
The middle was different. The middle was the prize. One kid received the honor, always with quiet ceremony. The lucky kid would slip beneath and disappear into that cool, secret bubble of air while the rest of us kept the parachute alive.
Lift. Lower. Again.
Life on the fringe had a simple assignment. Pretend the work on the edge and the fun in the middle were the same thing. From the outside, it looked magical. From the edge, it felt like labor. Wrists burning. Shoulders tight. No glory. No cool air where it mattered. Still, hope lingered. Maybe next time the middle would belong to one of us. Maybe someone else would carry the weight.
I remember wanting the middle and fearing the middle at the very same time. Long before I understood language like power or systems, something quiet inside that circle told the truth. The kid in the center lived differently. The fabric rose for them without effort. Joy arrived without cost. Power gathered beneath the tent of color while the rest of us stayed at the fringe and pretended it was equal.
Life kept offering new parachutes after I left the gym…at home, in the classroom, and at work. The language was still teamwork. The reality was often a bright center that glowed while everyone else kept the rhythm steady. If I am honest, I have lived in both places. I have held the edge until my hands felt raw. I have also stood in the middle and felt how easily the circle can disappear from view.
The parachute taught a lesson I wish had waited until I was older. Joy is uneven. Work is invisible to those not doing it. And if you are not paying attention, you can live your whole life on the fringe, convincing yourself that the view is the same for all.
Now I pay attention. Who is chosen? Who is always lifting? When I find myself in the center, with air and space and room to move, I work to remember the circle. I notice the hands along the edge. I try to live as the kind of center that makes more room for everyone to breathe, and the kind of edge where collaboration is real.
Muddled Soma 