No, I didn’t have an accident!

But isn’t life full of little accidents? What I mean is, there are parameters within which we can allow ourselves to be out of control.

For example: Last winter I wrote about how I watched a cyclist pass me on his massive easy step-through Biria slipping and sliding in a thick growing layer of fluffiness without a care, because he knew that he would slip only so far and still right himself automatically. His thick tires slid down into the unexpected grooves of the uneven ground hidden under the fresh snow, but that did not disturb my fellow rider, who rode on with certainty of his graceful recovery. He soon was out of sight, and I followed on foot in his tracks.

This made me think that we recover all the time, in fact each step we take is a miniscule ever so brief loss of balance. Between the time when we pick up one foot and the time we put it down in front of the other we trust that we will land safely on both feet again.

If I may digress and say this applies so much more broadly. It applies to art, and music, and relationships. It’s about trust, and experience, and skill.

A brush stroke comes out the way it does not because the artist controls every split second, and every angle of every individual muscle in her hand, but because she has made many brush strokes before, and experienced a pattern in their outcome.

A singer can allow a note to come out false and harsh, only to glide into key, and resolve in the most beautiful sound. It’s even more desirable and interesting than a singer who is always in control.

What would our relationships be like if we didn’t get a chance to fight and make up? How much anxiety would we experience from the constant fear of conflict?

So, how do we determine these parameters? How do we determine how far out of control is too far?

Practise and experience help us gain the skills to make graceful barely noticeable recoveries all day, and keep our lives exciting.