The Rollo Bollo Diaries: Why Balance Is Not Just a Circus Trick (And I’m Loving It)

Every morning—or damn near every morning—I climb aboard my Rollo-Bollo. You know these when you see them : a wobbly plank perched on a rolling cylinder, the kind of contraption circus freaks use to juggle flaming torches or ride unicycles while blindfolded. Me? I love doing this for another purpose. Three to five minutes is my sweet spot. Just me, the board, and a whole lotta teetering.

And here is the irony: I’m never balanced. Not for a single, shiny second.

People toss “balance” around like it’s some holy grail—a perfect still point where life clicks into place like a Lego set. But let me share the real deal: you don’t get balance. It’s a thing you do – actively and in an ongoing manner. A wild, living, breathing circus act of micro-adjustments, a million tiny twitches keeping you upright while the world spins, tilts, and tickles you in endless ways.

Can you see it yet?: I’m up there, legs quivering like a caffeinated flamingo, arms flailing like I’m conducting an invisible orchestra. The cylinder rolls left—and I shift right. It sneaks forward—I lean back. My breath hitches, my core fires, my toes grip like they’re auditioning for Spider-Man. Balanced? Ha! I’m a slow-motion tornado, a symphony of chaos pretending to be calm. Ahhh that is the charm, and there is true magic in life.

Balance is a sense—right up there with taste, touch, and the way rain smells on a Tuesday morning in sunny Los Angeles. It’s not a trophy; it’s a conversation. A daily tune-up. My Rollo-Bollo, my maestro, whispering, “Hey, Joshua, feel this. Adjust that. Breathe here.” After five minutes of wobble, I’m more awake to my skin than a triple-dirty Matcha-latte with a side of cacao could ever dream.

But let’s zoom out—because this isn’t just about me and my circus toy. This is about you, Conscious Creative, and that slippery lie we’ve all been sold: the myth of stillness. The idea is that balance is some perfect, static state you can lock down and call it a day. Work-life balance? Oh, please. As if work and life are two neat little boxes you can weigh on a scale—eight hours here, eight hours there, sprinkle in some sleep, and voilà, you’re “balanced.“

That’s not a life. That’s a factory life. That’s a robot’s wet dream—three paintings hung dead-center on a sterile wall, sealed in a vacuum where nothing grows, shifts, or even lives. You can pull that off with auto-objects, sure—nail up your frames, measure the angles, and call it art. But stick three rocks in a living, breathing garden? Good luck, pal. The wind nudges ’em. The rain sinks ’em. A squirrel knocks one over just for kicks. Nature doesn’t do “still”. Nature does flux—messy, gorgeous, alive.

And us? Creatives, artists, souls who dare to breathe in the real world? We’re not built for vacuums. We’re built for the garden. For the storm and the sprout, the crash and the quiet. We don’t find balance—we wrestle with it, dance with it, curse it out, and kiss it goodnight. Every day’s a new roll of the cylinder—new winds, new wobbles, new ways to stay upright.

Now that we have that let’s look at your art.

Writing a script? One day it’s flowing like honey; the next, it’s a brick wall, and you’re tweaking your rhythm, your coffee intake, your playlist—micro-adjusting ’til it sings again.

Acting? You’re on stage, feeling the crowd’s pulse, shifting your stance, breath, and intention to hit that note just right. Painting? The canvas stares back, daring you to find the line—and you do, brush trembling, because you’re alive, not still.

Work-life balance? You can say goodbye to that nonsense.

Work is life, and life is work, play, love, chaos, and hot chocolate spills—they’re all tangled up in one big, beautiful mess. The idea there’s a “perfect amount” of each? That’s a fairy tale for folks who’d rather live in a cubicle than a forest. Me, I’d take the mud and the moss any day—because that’s where the real stuff happens. That’s where you feel the zillion-and-one threads pulling at you, begging for attention, keeping you on your toes. Remember – the lotus flower only grows from deep mud.

Back to the Rollo-Bollo. Those three to five minutes? They’re my daily reminder: balance isn’t a finish line—it’s a practice. I’m not up there to be balanced; I’m up there to feel balanced. To wobble and laugh and catch myself before I eat the floor. Tune into the flux—the way my hips sway, my breath quickens, my focus sharpens. It’s a living, natural thing, not a museum piece.

And you, out there, spinning your own creative circus? You’re doing it too. Whenever you pick up a pen, a brush, or a script, you’re stepping onto your own Rollo-Bollo. You’re not static—you’re alive. You’re not balanced—you’re balancing. A million micro-moves, a thousand tiny choices, all weaving together into what the outside world might call “a balanced life.“

But you and I? We know the truth. It’s not a still life—it’s a wild ride.

So here’s the payoff, the big-top finale: stop chasing balance like a prize you can pin to your chest. Start playing with it like the messy, marvelous game it is.

Step onto your Rollo-Bollo—literal or not—and wobble with me. Breathe into the flux. Lean into the tilt. Let the cylinder roll and roll and roll, because that’s where the juice lives. That’s where your art, your soul, your whole damn creative heartbeat thrives—not in stillness, but in the glorious, teetering dance of being alive.

Where creativity wobbles and wins. And breathes

Joshua