Childhood roundabout,
whirling out of control,
flinging you from the edge —
knees grazed,
knuckles white
as you hang on for dear life.

Closer to the hub
the struggle eases.
Grip, haul, strain —
then suddenly,
stillness at the centre.

Isn’t this life?
Spun by forces
we cannot hold,
grasping at struts
to keep balance.

Hours of sitting,
mantras hoarse,
foreheads to the floor —
yet the centre seems far away.
They tell us it may take lifetimes.

But here is the secret:
you are already the hub.
You always were.
The struggle is the dream.

Let go,
and the centre holds.
You are home.

It’s worth the risk
to find out.