When I was in Carmel some young men came to the beach and saw the slant of it and instead of struggling in the sand to make their way down the steep hill, just fell to the ground and rolled. Then, they climbed back up and did it again.
I am reminded of this poem by Lucille Clifton.
to my aunt blanche
who rolled from grass to driveway
into the street one sunday morning.
i was ten. i had never seen
a human woman hurl her basketball
of a body into the traffic of the world.
Praise to the drivers who stopped in time.
Praise to the faith with which she rose
after some moments then slowly walked
sighing back to her family.
Praise to the arms which understood
little or nothing of what it meant
but welcomed her in without judgment,
accepting it like children might,