On stumbles, experiments, and childhood
I stumbled. Upwards. Literally.
This was not uncharacteristic for me. When I was a boy, my parents would frequently call me accident-prone. I wore it like a badge of honor, like I had a secret. I knew all my so-called accidents were actually experiments. One by one, as I made accidents - carelessly spilling water at the dinner table, stubbing my toe at the foot of the bed, running off a relatively-low cliff near Lake George in pursuit of a ball my brother tossed up and breaking my arm - I learned. I observed the consequence of so-called accidents that pushed to new boundaries and created scenarios that don’t exist in moments of stability, and developed an ability to learn from the consequences - more in terms of observing the science and philosophy of each action then learning how not to be accident-prone. Indeed, I am accident-prone to this day: I run around my house as a grown adult and break things all the time. As a child, this taught me how to genuinely apologize, how to remain calm in crisis, how to charm willing juries, and more. I conducted many such experiments.
For me, it unconsciously defined much of my childhood education.
It resonated with me when a famous scientist said that when children drop an egg on the ground that smashes, parents should be glad as kids stare in wonder. It is the least expensive science, and life, lesson the child can experience.
This morning, I had a brief, inconsequential accident as I ran up the stairs and tripped.
I stumbled, and I ran up afterwards. I have done this countless times. There I was, carrying up the laundry - actually, accumulated ‘bed-time clothes’ I had changed in and out of and then piled up by the wall over time.
This time, I actually paused post-stumble to think. Why did I run? Why did I scamper up the wooden staircase all of a sudden?
It was not because I was embarrassed; there was no one around to see my misstep. Though I wouldn’t completely dismiss this reason because we become trained instinctively to cover up mistakes even to ourselves.
It was not because this was a safety reaction; how could going faster make me safer after a stumble? Though it is conceivable that there is some scientific reason why once we stumble, going faster is the necessary action - sort of like how in an arcade racing game, if you drive anything less than 120MPH, you are bound to crash your race car.
I ventured my best speculation, my instinctive speculation: fight or flight. My body took the stumble as some sort of crisis, not an attack per se, but a disruption that required a response. Admittedly, I do not know what “fight” would look like in this scenario, but the idea that there was instability and the body wants to end it as quickly as possible to return to homeostasis of sorts would make sense, and running to the flat platform where no one stumbles could be it.
This made me wonder about other unconscious fight or flight scenarios. It could be shutting down in an argument, a form of flight. It could be getting defensive when receiving critical feedback, a fight response. Or anything else.
How does fight or flight unconsciously impact our day-to-day, even down to the smallest moments like a stumble?
Indeed, stumbles are accidents, as much as they are experiments. Life is replete with stumbles: physical, personal, professional, emotional, spiritual, and indescribable stumbles. This unintentional experiment sparked some new hypotheses.