If you like a metaphor that wears out its welcome, then this post is for you…
After this week’s winter mixes passed through our area, we were left with slick streamlines of ice on the sidewalks and roads. Since I can’t stand to be inside for more than three hours at a time and sided with fashion over function with my winter boots, I have had the so appreciated chance to fine tune my ice flailing skills.
Here in the mid-atlantic region, ice, as opposed to snow, sets a real fear in people. It isn’t picturesque or fun. It’s danger. And yesterday while taking my fourth full-out spill of the week, I got in touch with that fear. Even though I had seen the patch of ice, planted my foot properly, and given the act my full attention, I had no bearings when I pushed away from the ground.
When the storms come through and we find ourselves on the icy patches of life (there it is!!!) we are told to get back up, to consider our fall a “growth experience.” On a good day, when I’ve had the coffee and the meds and done the yoga, I can sign off on this kind of reframing. But sometimes I can’t help but fall in with the folks who take a secret pleasure in the suspension. These are the sickos who would never admit to finding a small bit of comfort somewhere between the stand and the fall, where the real nature of life lies, outside of our plans and our progress.