We jump outlined against the white pine, outlined against our wood fence, outlined against the black bouncy tarp with a blue ring. My hyper boy and I fling ourselves into the air as we fly away from impending enemies of dismembered lego men, arms, legs, trunks; of rolling murder balls of marbles; of flat-ish fatal footballs, basketballs, soccerballs, a volleyball. I submit to the penalties of being touched: 10 jumping jacks for these two balls, five for the rest; two for lego pieces; and three for marbles. Cody editorializes my memory lapse constantly and constantly shouts out my number of jumping jacks to do. My jumping jacks have never felt more light, more airborne. We're off again flying, avoiding the bouncing brigade, laughing, motionfull, close to the squirrel on the nearby power line who flits and floats and pounces down upon a wobbling shifting twig, tail waving us on, as we pounce, jump, and fling ourselves upward into the air of lovely drifting clouds.
And when I slide off, and touch my feet down to earth, I have my doubts. Someone told me just last night that her adhd son is doing well because of their structure; he will be able to succeed upon this ground because his habit will be practical, predictable, patterned. I trudge up my deck steps to the door to call my son back to duty, yet duty is hard for me as well, so will I be able truly to exact anything which can help him upon the solid back of necessity? Is motion only appropriate if it is forward?
No, I can spring again. We're good. Robert Frost and his birch knows it. Uvavnuk knows it when he writes:
The great sea has set me in motion,
set me adrift,
moving me like a weed in a river.
The sky and the strong wind
have moved the spirit inside me
till I am carried away
trembling with joy.
So, thank you once again, Poets, and all who know about such things. I affirm jumping, leaping, bouncing, rolling, upward toe-touching, soaring, bounding and springing just for the sake of a fuller understanding.
Now, we'll get to math.