A Decent Metaphor Beaten to Death
A few things about me:
- I don't like heights.
- My sense of physical balance is not great.
- I have never cared for the circus.
And yet, I am living one. I am up on that freaking high wire, hoping the callouses on my twisted feet and my rough soled slippers will keep me vertical on the high wire, will keep me from plunging to the earth in my tacky costume and stage make up.
(Okay, enough of the metaphor. Well, maybe a little more.)
But I actually do kind of feel that way. It's all I can do to keep my balance, literally putting one foot in front of the other, focused on the safe place at the end of the wire. I'm going slowly. Sometimes the foot goes forward, sometimes back to help balance me. I'm holding on to that pole for dear life, hoping it will help.
But I am toppled by a stiff breeze. Or something catches my eye and makes me lose my footing;
I wind up on the ground and crying.
I seem to do fine for a couple of weeks, doing better, getting my feet under me, taking big steps. Standing up straight and almost confident. And then something knocks me. An important date. a challenge to push myself academically, intellectually. A friend could use my support for something important.
I can almost see it in slow motion as I lose my balance and plunge downward. I am lucky to have C as my safety net. To have personal and professional support, and you, my dear internets. Despite the net, it hurts to fall. And it takes so much to get back on that freaking ladder, to get back up on the wire. It shakes and bends with my steps, with my attempts to right myself, or to begin again.
Meanwhile, life is passing by, time is ticking away and there is only so much others can do. They can cheer me on as I climb the ladder, attempt another crossing. They cheer from below, and from the other side. But I am the only one, I am alone in my crossing.
Did I mention my balance sucks?
And I fucking hate the circus.