I didn’t have the words for it then, stability, but from teachers, to neighbors, to the toy aisle at Ben Franklin, I was certainly seeking it out. Placed strategically on the center shelf by the back door, just in reach of my chubby hand, the family of Weebles resided. I stood, mesmerized by the cartoon colors. I kept a close watch on my mother’s head that rose above the rack as she looked for material. My heart dared my finger to test it. (My heart was always doing that. With my grandma — would she bandage this? With my grandpa — would he pick me up? With my mother — would she always stay?) One quick glance up for her head, then back down to the Weebles, I poked my finger in the middle. It rocked. But it didn’t fall down. I smiled. I tested the whole family. Only rocking. Sweet rocking. 

Of course like any child, I did my share of Ben Franklin begging. But for reasons I know now, that I couldn’t explain then, I didn’t need the Weebles at home. I was fine to leave them on the shelf. Wobbling. I suppose it was only the proof I was seeking. I made my way across the store. Past the penny candy. Into the material section. My mother was still there. She always would be.

I love to paint pears. Their strength is not obvious at first glance. Their fragility, one might say, is perhaps even obvious. But when paired together (pardon the pun) they may wobble, but they don’t fall down. Sweet and glorious stability. It may not always be in arm’s reach, but look around, it is there, perhaps just across the aisle. Not only do I lean on it, daily, I am a part of that sometimes wobbly, fragile, joyful strength.