Spinning Plates
Spinning Plates: October 15, 2019
On school mornings there is a small space of time, after Mark gets out of bed but before I need to, when I think. I think about my body from the inside out--stretching the sore muscles or assessing the small injuries. Situating myself in space. Isn’t it kind of amazing that you can know where your toe is without looking at it? Or whether you are lying down or leaning, just by how it feels? This is known as proprioception, sometimes called the sixth sense.
We take it for granted, but without proprioception, life would be very limited. My kids wouldn’t be able to sneak around in the dark. I couldn’t type this while looking at the screen. There would be no driving; you wouldn’t be able to look away from your hands on the steering wheel—not to mention moving your foot from the gas pedal to the brake.
In that small morning space, I also situate myself in time. I think about yesterday, what I'm pleased with and what I'd like to have done better. I think about today, the various schedules and activities, and I sketch out a mental plan to keep all the plates spinning.
There are a lot of plates.
For instance. There are five humans and one dog in our house. Four humans attend or teach in four different schools. That’s three different Fall breaks. Dog is pretty much on permanent break. The fifth person, moi, gets no stinkin Fall break, though remains in charge of logistics.
I inhabit a paradoxical role. I keep most of the family plates spinning. And I am the anchor point around which most family plates spin.
I’ve instituted a Sunday night family meeting. For now, it’s strictly coordination of calendars and household duties, but I’m hoping to introduce some discussions. Maybe even end with a card game. It’s still a work in progress. One more plate.
That’s the thing about plates. Each one is its own little system. I’ve noticed that if I put a little extra effort into the front end of plate-system-set-up, then the gyroscopic momentum helps to keep it going. The institutionalization allows a little margin of error, a cushion of time when I can take my eyes off the steering wheel and look at the road ahead.
The trick is to have enough plates that the momentum keeps the larger system spinning. But not so many plates that the momentum topples the system. Most importantly: no plates for the sake of more plates.
I had a college boyfriend who was an accomplished juggler. He would practice with three balls, perfecting various patterns and cadences. We were on the Quad one beautiful Spring afternoon and someone stopped to watch for a while, and then said, “Can you do four?” It kinda stuck in David’s craw. He took it as a summer challenge and learned to juggle four, which is a completely different juggling pattern. Back on the Quad the next Fall he was performing for me, and some kid came up, watched for a while and then said, “Can you do five?”
When Emma was still in preschool I remember occasionally being graced with a blessed, sacred moment right after dropping her off. I would get in the quiet car, close the door and take a deep breath. The car was pleasantly warm. I liked to park up by the hedge because when I closed myself in, the view was a wall of green with an occasional mockingbird. In the dog days of late summer I could hear the buzzing of cicadas in the old oak trees lining Pettigru Street. If I closed my eyes, the approximately four-car-per-minute traffic cycle sounded like waves on the beach. Mark, Jack, Emma were all where they were supposed to be and, as far as I knew, safe. Two breaths. Three. A quiet thanksgiving. And on with the day.
If I had it in me tonight, I’d talk about how all the little individual plate systems create my complex family system. I’d relate that to the way any institution incorporates all its smaller spinning pieces and remark on how that forward momentum keeps institutions from changing quickly. I’d allow as how that’s sometimes a good, stabilizing feature. And how that’s sometimes a drag on pivoting to new realities, new customs, new emphases.
But instead, I’m going to greet my son just home from Scouts. I’m going to kiss my daughter who put herself to bed. I’m going to pat the dog, accept a glass of wine from my husband, and read with him until bedtime. Because tonight, that is what will keep me both the still anchor point of my family and will allow me to get up tomorrow, orient myself in space, and finesse a little spin on each of my plates.
