Imagine: You're at the circus, sitting under that great red-and-white striped tent, watching all the glitz and spectacle. Kernels of popcorn fall from your mouth because you're so mesmerized by the sparkling parade of elephants in the center ring. Then with a grand flourish, the ringmaster bellows into his great yellow bullhorn and the spotlight slides up and up to illuminate the band of acrobats waving from a tiny platform. A thin metal wire stretches before them, and one of the acrobats steps upon it, far above the ground. You lean forward in your seat, captivated. With barely a wobble, she successfully crosses to the other side with a small bow; at the second platform, she's handed a long pole to balance in addition on her walk back. And then her fellow acrobats pile china plates on the ends of her pole, and her arms begin to shake from the weight as she carefully turns to cross again. As the trick becomes more precarious, your popcorn bag is forgotten, scattered across the floor. You are transfixed by her ungainly silhouette, worrying about what would happen if she fell and rooting for the seemingly-impossible feat of her making it across the wire in perfect condition. Plates chattering, she takes the first step, and you hold your breath.
But why? Why are we so wrapped up in her successful crossing with that absurd burden of hers? Because even sitting in the bleachers, we know that terrible feeling. The pole starting to tip and the plates sliding off, tumbling to the ground with shattering sounds; your heart chugging as the rod pulls away toward the ground, leaving you to cling to your thin wire with little more than your skin. You don't have to be an acrobat to know that sick feeling of failure - just human. And we watch her, wanting her balancing act to succeed and assure us that we will be able to get to the other side, too.
As a child, you don't realize how true to real life her balancing act is, but with age you experience moments of feeling a very precarious balance as your responsibilities pile up. How do I get my homework done, and go out on a date? How do I make it to my son's baseball game and not upset the boss by missing that work meeting?
There are the circus freaks: those who can coordinate 3 kids' soccer games and work a full-time job and bake cookies for the PTA meeting. But, I repeat, they are circus freaks. I am as fascinated with them as I am the bearded lady. The rest of us gawk at their towering burdens and wonder how heavy their dosage of Ritalin must be for such feats.
And eventually you do learn that there are too many good things, too many voices telling you what you should carry. When it gets to the point where you're trying to haul a fully-loaded china hutch across the wire, it must fall. And it will fall, with a sickening sound of breaking, when inevitably you can no longer bear it. Learn from it and lighten the load. Shake your head. Say no. Better to cross with two plates than to fall with ten.
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