perfect balance (panopticon visions)

I take them to a gymnastics class.  There is a warehouse-sized gymnastics school nearby, a place other families drive an hour to get to.  But we use it recreationally, and not as the precursor to their budding Olympic dreams.  Z is full of energy as she hits the floor each week, bounding awkwardly across the mat, as girls half her size fling themselves casually into handstands, lowering their bodies over into bridge poses and pushing off again to regain their confident poses.  They do pull-ups and push-ups, flips with no hands on the balance beam and runs of back handsprings down a stretch of trampoline, while my children run in circles, careening with delight on the mini uneven bars, swinging on a make-shift trapeeze before dropping into the pit of foam blocks (and throwing them at each other for sport).

For my kids, it is a form of play, of organized and orchestrated jubilation.  But for most of the girls on the floor this is a competitive pursuit, training most nights of the week for Saturday competitions, breaking their bodies until they can command the body to do what they require.  (I will say only that the moms sit upstairs, looking down on the scene, a Panopticon view, chatting about Saturday’s tournament or whether their daughter will ever master the balance beam.  I read books in the corner.)

My kids are not natural gymnasts, at least Z is not and Bean is still young and unfocused. Perhaps if they were I would encourage them to devote themselves to this pursuit.  Oh, but at age 7, I still want her to play, the afternoon stretching before her and the backyard beckoning.

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