A needle on a compass wobbles and spins, constantly redirecting itself toward the arctic north. When I was born I came out spinning, as my umbilical cord had wrapped itself around my neck three times. They twisted me and twisted me so that I turned rosy pink and cried instead of icy blue and silent like the northern tundra. I nearly died, but soon grew into a happy baby who seemed to be going everywhere at once.
As a child, I realized my hair is perfectly straight, save for wispy curls around my ears. My right shoulder is higher than my left. I always have bruises mapping my travels and tumbles upon my legs because I am so clumsy. Never quite balanced or perfectly symmetrical; always slightly skewed and vaguely off-kilter.
Like the compass’s needle, I require constant readjustment, rethinking, and reevaluation. Those tiring wobbles and spins are just pulling me upward in life, toward my north. I fear the day when I feel perfectly balanced and still–how will I find my direction in life?