Don’t we just love for life to come out evenly for everyone?
That’s what we are taught in America.
Everyone gets an equal share of the pie.
Our heads bob around the babysitter’s elbows like a bird’s tiny body bouncing from branch to sky to ground, never deciding its final resting place.
We watch with our hearts racing as she cuts up all the pieces.
“I want the square piece.”
“I call middle.”
“Wait, do we all get one or two?!”
Everyone gets an equal shot at success.
… And then ACT scores become a thing.
(Cue the horrified student who hates math).
Everyone gets a perfectly equal square inch-square-foot,“Talk of the Town” room in the house.
But wait… Who gets the window?
We fight for our share of the land, our share of the money, our share of beauty and fame, and that never-ending stardust we all fall prey to.
hmm.. What are we fighting for exactly?
And then... Behold.
Our eyes peel open after days, months, years of being locked away, like the forgotten, rusty castle door that holds all the treasure inside its barren walls.
The sun hovers over us and she sings.
She lets us know we are okay.
We are safe.
Right here in the middle.
The middle of life.
The middle of growth.
The middle of the road.
There is always a road and we are always in the middle of it.
On the way to somewhere.
With someone, without someone.
With shoes, barefoot.
With heavy heads, a clear mind.
Our berry-spilling, crust-crumbling pie.
Our own version of school and the classroom- with barefoot hippies who talk about farming and a deep compassion for the earth.
Our perfect, cozy little room with inviting pillows and a book shelf the size of the Appalachian Mountains.
We shall meet right here in the middle.
Where life happens.