When I was a kid I would spin around. I would spin a lot. The act of spinning was gleeful and frightening. Gyroscopic pressure on the body as I turned alleviated the emotional and physical pressure I felt. I would spin to feel centrifugal forces working on my body, I would spin to see if I was wearing my flappy skirt today, I would spin to see if my shoes stayed on a or if there was something nearby to bump in to. Spinning was gleeful. The goal was to spin so much I fell down. Failure, in effect was my goal. Get so disoriented and dizzy that my legs could no longer support me. Failure was an opportunity try to regroup in a crumpled heap on the floor, enjoy what just happened and decide if I would start over and do it again. Was I satisfied? Had I spun enough? Did I have more spins in me? Had I failed spectacularly enough yet? Failure and starting over was success. I don’t remember when I last considered that failure was to be embraced and considered a success and opportunity to start over. Perhaps I should give spinning a try again, reframe my fears? I am off to find the flappiest skirt in my wardrobe.