Some people appear to float effortlessly through life, gliding along with their feet barely touching the ground, surrounded by a quiet calmness that evokes a peaceful, easy feeling in all who are graced by their presence.
I am not one of those people.
I stomp through life with the grace of a baby elephant, my heavy hoofing echoing through the halls at work and resounding down the roads of Salem. I pound the pavement with a caustic cadence that causes everyone I approach to turn and look behind them; runners, walkers, dogs and even a scampering squirrel, frozen in fear as he stares at me over his little rodent shoulder. Like a domino game, for years I would turn and look behind me as well, finally realizing it was my own stomping feet of fury that was demanding such attention.
Let’s just say I would not qualify for any job that required me to sneak up on anyone. I am as subtle as a tsunami, and phrases such as “Let me get out of your way”, “Watch out!” and “Here she comes!” are as common to me as “hello”.
If I were a fighter, I’d be introduced as a mini flyweight, standing in my corner at 5’1’’, a scant 105 pounds. And like a fighter, dainty is not a word to describe me. Nor would you want to get into the ring with me, as I’m deceptively strong for my size.
On any given day, I can be seen carrying the equivalent of my body weight in ‘stuff’ everywhere I go, be it work, the gym, or a volunteer event. Climbing three flights of stairs to the office, I am loaded up like a camel prepped for a trek through the Sahara balancing a pocketbook, briefcase, gym bag, two plastic grocery bags full of coffee supplies that threaten to cut the circulation off to my left wrist, and a half sheet cake that says Happy March Birthdays.
Recently while on vacation, I went on a zip line adventure, which required us to carry our own heavy gear to the top of the mountain. When the youthful guide asked if I needed him to carry my gear as it might be too heavy for me, my friend burst out into laughter saying “Don’t let her fool you…she could carry her gear AND you up the mountain!”
I’ve carried more than my share of weight my whole life, both physically and emotionally. I can still feel the weight of brother Stephen as a baby, my petite frame carrying him up the creaking stairs to bed, his slumbering self almost half my size. It’s a weight I carry with me still, the pain of his death absorbed into my constitution, making me feel heavier per square inch than a moon rock.
Like a sad Santa, I trudge along with my sack full of useless emotions and hurtful experiences, wanting to drop it and run, but fearful that another poor soul who is not strong enough to withstand the load will have to suffer its burden instead of me. So onward I march.
But there are rare moments of clarity amidst the turmoil, when I temporarily break free of the gravity that grounds me, like a balloon breaking free of its weight, and I feel light. Magnificently light.
Air is light. Clouds are light. Angels are light.
Realizing I’m not quite ready to lighten up that much, I pick up my sack and march back into my purposeful life, determined one day to find out exactly what that purpose is.
