As a toddler learning to walk, falling down is a daily if not hourly occurrence. You pull yourself up to prove your own resilience and pridefully increase your ability to easily navigate everything from a linoleum kitchen floor to an unexpected half step between rooms. We don’t really remember falling when we’re learning to walk. We block those recurring tumbles the same way we have no recollection of perfecting the complexities of chewing food and correctly using a toilet. We gradually gain the ability to feel the ground beneath our feet and just when we think we are safe from the spills we have long since graduated from, gravity reminds us who is in charge. And now as the fall foliage reminds me to mindfully reflect on the setting sun of summer, I am reminded of all the good the warm months brought me. I feel the river water running through my feet, the rays of sun painting my face in freckles, and above all else, the unwelcome, abrupt contact I recently made with an unforeseen divot in the ground.

It was a beautiful July day and I had spent the week volunteering on the UW-Eau Claire campus, inspired by the scenery and rejuvenated by the vigor that only comes with working closely with artistic youth. As the final days of the week came to a close, we found ourselves scrambling to ensure all was set for the campers’ final showcase. In an attempt to lend a helping hand, my friend/associate and I found ourselves bouncing around town to check off the long list of to-do’s as needed. After what seemed like hours of time spent spiraling, we had put the finishing touches on some gorgeous graphic novels, and exited Centennial Hall with our heads held high – we had pulled it off! We had stared into the eye of the task tornado and now got to reap the rewards of the rainbow on the other side.

As we made our way back to the car, we struck up a conversation with a passerby. I carried the box containing the freshly printed paper in my arms, and my colleague carried the heavy summer air in his (which is to say he carried nothing). We discussed our day of chaotic task completion and chatted a bit about our summers and exchanged pleasantries on a mutual stretch of sidewalk. What could be more midwestern than a welcome and unprovoked run-in with that person from that place?

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Perhaps taking a tumble is the lighthearted reminder we are all in desperate need of, to remind us of the joy in getting back up.

Just as the car came into sight, the natural dissolve of conversation began. And as I began to bid my fond farewell to this short-lived walking companion, something strange began to happen. The ground beneath my shoe had somehow reconfigured itself, and my body had not accounted for it. So there I was, somewhere between saying goodbye and sucking on grass – defying every rule of physics in how slowly time passed before I realized I was certainly, without a second guess, fully falling into the ground. By the time I came to, it had already happened. My leg tucked under me like a common chicken, the box of novels behind me, and a siren-like ringing in my ear that sounded a lot like my friend yelling “Woah! You really fell there!”

As the shrill sound subsided, it was clear the walking companion had taken stock of the situation and suddenly had to be anywhere but near me, and who could blame him? I too wanted to be as far away from myself as possible at this moment.

“Here, I’ll carry the box” my former friend said to me as I ruled out major (physical) injuries. An act of undeniable chivalry in my time of unrelenting embarrassment. I half limped to the driver’s side of the car and slumped behind the steering wheel. It was done – I had fully and theatrically fallen onto the ground. It could never be reversed and would never be forgotten – and I had the grass stains and witness to prove it. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” my friend asked, and perhaps that was what did it. We broke into the kind of laughter that can’t be spoken through – tears rolling down our red cheeks as slapstick of the situation took hold.

We forget sometimes that we grow up and grow out of the things that once brought us insurmountable joy – whether it is learning to walk or leaning into laughing at ourselves. We take life too seriously in the form of errands being checked off and art being something better off complete. Perhaps taking a tumble is the lighthearted reminder we are all in desperate need of, to remind us of the joy in getting back up.