clumsy

- that's what she was. Clumsy. 

She wanted to help, but she was afraid. Afraid of failure, of her own weak foolishness. Afraid of people, afraid of their pain. Of vulnerability. Of hurting and being hurt, knowing and being known. Afraid of getting it wrong. Her fear would hold her back, halting, hesitating until the last possible moment - and finally, convicted, desperate, and flailing, she would splash abruptly in.

She was clumsy. Her uncertain feet got in their own way while she looked in at herself all the time and didn't watch where she was going. The words came out wrong; she didn't know what she was doing, really. She wanted to be better than she was, but if that wasn't possible, at least she could look better. But her mask kept slipping, and all she looked was silly.

People would raise their eyebrows. What was this girl doing, anyway?

She didn't understand people who had it all together. They bothered her. They couldn't be real, could they? One thing was sure, she wasn't one of them; didn't belong. She didn't fit in with people who had already figured out who they were and what to do and how to do it, how to sidle through life without hurting each other or making messes. What could you say to people like that? How did they manage? It was a mystery.

When she looked back, with a long stick she could point out things to do differently next time - crucial steps along the way to make it turn out right. But the rewind button was not only jammed, not only unresponsive, but missing altogether. The time river only flows forward, and so she charged on, and the mistakes etched themselves in history.

Tired and sad, and very, very small, she laid herself down. And someone asked her, What's driving you, little girl? 

And she said, What? I don't know. I feel like I should do something to help. I want to be useful - I'm afraid to not be useful. Someone should help, so why not me? But I'm not doing it right. If I were really good, I would be able to do it right, wouldn't I?

Certainly, was the answer.

That's not helpful, she said.

Are you really good? the patient questioner wondered. She was quiet, and knew the only answer, and he went on: You are harried by a pack of should's, and they have hounded you almost to the edge of reason - yet you refuse to drink from the streams that spring up, clean and clear, all along the way. Do you wonder that you cannot go on? And are you so afraid of joy?

But how... she asked, even though she knew. Her thoughts would not be collected.

Know Me, he said, and learn the freedom of My love. Be driven by it, and the burden of duty will melt into delight.