Life's a Beach, Maybe

A few months ago, I saw a woman practicing the tightrope, its length pulled taut between two pines.  It was one of those rare winter days when the air was warm enough and the ground dry enough to beckon me to Holmes Lake for a walkabout.  As I wrapped up my jaunt, I observed this amateur acrobat tucked into the trees near the north shore, seemingly oblivious to the rest of us.  And, even though the rope was hovering a mere foot or two above the ground, it was hard not to be impressed by her endeavor.


Taking the long view, her wobbly, determined trek came to represent something larger to me--namely, the precariousness of every life lived, each often played out on a novel  stage.

Let's not be fooled by the word "novel," however,  for it often is code for "you may feel some discomfort."  And, while I have never walked a tightrope--unless you count doing so symbolically--I imagine that the ability to fool oneself ("This is no big deal.  It's normal.") is as important a skill as being able to hug a small surface with your toes.  Frankly, neither sounds particularly natural to me, although we humans do talk a good game.

I've been exercising my own talk-a-good-game skills these days, although to see me in action wouldn't be nearly as interesting as happening upon a tightrope walker.  That's because mine is a strictly mental battle, one in which I practice convincing myself that it would be great if daughter Allison moved to Florida and attended college there.  And that the ocean, just steps from her dorm door, would not keep her from attending classes regularly.

Balance is a brutal endeavor, and, frankly, my toes have grown tired of clinging to this fraying rope of my current existence.  Surely, it would feel freeing to just stretch my feet, hop off the rope, and embrace the idea of sending the remaining of my brood into the great beyond called out-of-state tuition.  Surely--eventually--I would again find my balance and come to enjoy the idea of my seed scattered in the winds.  Especially if those winds were coming off the ocean.

For now, though, I flex my "fake it" muscles, gritting my teeth with each uttered dream that pours from my daughter's mouth, pretending that every last one of them is a viable, wonderful, future money-producing idea worth pursuing, all the while, my arms flailing wildly as I seek to find my balance.