Like a bag of sour balls, insecurity rounds my tongue, circles like a vulture ready to pick leftovers from bones already too labored to accept additional insult and finds the taste unsettling.
It is my world within a salt shaker, hidden from children and outsiders and I am carried in granules beyond measurable exhaustion. I am expected to endure, toss self into incomprehensible insanity while my rational mind struggles to accept the impossible, tries to outshine my wobbled balance with logic, fights with held tears and gritted teeth as my gut aches and my head screams:
"Not one more thing!"
But, there is always one more thing and it doesn't matter if I cry or not.
I am haunted by the dim memory of what it is to live without pain and find rhythm in circular motion. I wonder what promises really mean as I am quickly reminded how easily life breaks in the realm of naiveté when one lingers in the bliss of it. I know the feel of the scar and it doesn't take long to remember the burn.
It is, I suppose, how we learn.
Still, optimism and faith find a way to open my heart and I am better able to understand that none of us are so different from each other. We are all, each of us, products of the paths we have walked; each with his own burden to carry, each with his own set of links to learning and we are better for having walked here.
When I look behind, my past is circular. It rolls around like a rubber ball, bouncing from one island to another, skipping stones and dancing with each new idea; each new building block of learning. Yet, as appealing as youth may seem, I know I would never go back to how it was.
So when my mind screams and my hands are thrown to the air insisting I cannot take one more thing, I am reminded of how many things have led me to where I stand today, how as each hurdle has been conquered, it has been cast away and leaves me fresh ground to walk, fresh ground for one more thing.
There is always room for more.
Copyright © Pamela A. Lamppa
(All Rights Reserved)
No comments:
Post a Comment