We played a game at sleepovers, after the television screen went to a bullseye, and after all the secrets that a fifth grader could hold or even make up were released. Maybe it was because of all the junk food we had consumed, but we were never successful at “Light as a feather” — where we tried to lift a person with just our fingertips. And while it was true that no one ever left the ground, howling with laughter and pulling on each other’s mismatched pajamas, we certainly were lifted.
I think we knew then, possibly even more than we know now, that it was always just about showing up for each other. Pushing, putting others down, was, is never the answer. Why are we still getting that wrong? The higher we go, the bigger the responsibility to lift others.
And, oh, how easy it can be without the added weight of anger. Joy has always been light as a feather.
The song of the birds are tugging at my nightshirt. And maybe it’s childlike, maybe it’s naive, or maybe it’s just the lightness of joy, but I’m ready to step into the hope of the day. I still believe. And I am lifted.
