“When we’re afraid of the cars that are coming, we don’t stop in the street,” I tell my dogs. “We keep moving, so the cars will be behind us.”
“You have to listen to yourself,” I tell my friends, “your body is telling you what you need to do. Everything else can be figured out later.”
The words I need are inside me. They find ways out all the time to soothe the stinging wounds of another. But when I’m being flung around the sun at neck breaking speeds, trying my damndest not to lose my grip on everything I hold dear, they are shockingly mum. The difference is trust. So much of my being feels the tracks of the world, understands how all these little pieces move around me. I know that my friends are strong and capable. I know that the cars aren’t careening towards me. The difference is that I don’t instill that trust in myself.
I worry that I’ll lose sight of these balls that I juggle if I have to put one down to keep the others flying. I fear the loss of momentum that might occur if I stop to catch my breath. It’s not enough to tell myself that caring so much is an effective deterrent of these fallacies. I tell myself that not resting my weary bones isn’t a better outcome. I forgive the stillness, the feeble humanity, of the people I love. Because I accept them for what they are and trust them to find themselves many times over. But it is not a trust I instill in myself. And no matter what may come of this world I hang from my pinky finger, only that could be a true failing.