Deep peace of the quiet earth to you. 

Expendable.

October 17, 2017

 

We come with this built-in durability that we seem to forget about as soon as we make peace with gravity. I have wee nephews, and I watch their daily negotiation between large, heavy heads; feet desperately trying to catch up to the will, the drive, and the instinct to move; and the indisputable, heavy-handed law of gravity. 

 

But you know, kiddos are born with this resilience, this ability to give into the pain of the moment, but then go about their daily lives, more or less unaffected by a tumble, a slip, a lost battle with the long arm of gravitational law. It's us--the adults--who think these bodies are so fragile--because we have let life teach us that they are fragile. We have taken the tumbles to heart and we believe in an unfriendly world, just waiting to trip us up.

 

At least, I know I do. 

 

But I can remember, one day, tripping and falling en route to preschool. I had on a skirt and navy blue tights, and I remember those tights ripping, my knees bleeding, and I can remember the physical pain, but there's no hangover there, no holding myself carefully to avoid more pain. There was just a general regret about the tights mingled with, in retrospect, a sort of pride that I went to battle and survived. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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