I want to write about fragility, but the words are elusive as the subject matter.
I read a post, a few weeks ago, about embracing fragility and my ears have been burning ever since. Both the word and the reality of it are suddenly everywhere. I am fine tuned to the impermanence and unknowability of it all. The gossamer threads that link us and the things that change on the turn of the wind. The fact that there is very little, really, that we can hold onto.
The post (which I have searched high and low for) caught my attention because it positioned fragility as beautiful – and yet, to me, it has always come with fear. Fragility means that something can break. That it can disappear. That it is there, for a little while; and then, poof, with the touch of a feather it is gone.
This has never struck me as particularly beautiful.
The ambiguity reminded me of a poem by Emily Dickinson that left me feeling equally perplexed –
“That it will never come again
Is what makes life so sweet”
Here too, I have found myself unable to relate. Bitter sweet feels more accurate though maybe the tension comes from focusing on the loss; from trying to clasp something so delicate –
I wonder if the fear would ebb, if I just stood back? If acknowledging the beauty of fragility is what removes the struggle? If it is the thing that allows people to take risks, and live with uncertainty, and not get tangled up in trying to pin things that can’t be pinned down down?
I have made a deal with myself that this is what I will do.
Stand back. Accept the fragility of it all. Resist the urge to make things that are inherently uncertain, certain. Engage with life on life’s terms, rather than getting caught up in a fight. Live for the moment –
I have got the theory but the practice has me stumped.