Fragility

be more careful…or more caring?

Snow flakes. Crystal wine glasses. Newborn babies.

Be careful! Hold them gently!

Soufflés. Lace veils. Crispy chips.

Easy, now! Don’t grip too hard, or you’ll break them!

Ancient vases. Old bones. Stradivarius violins.

Don’t touch! Those are irreplaceable!

Fragility. It’s a quality that both enchants us and wrings us tight with worry. It’s a quality that is impossibly obvious when your body is winding down and not working the way you wish it would. It’s named as something you want to “fix” - shore up, build up, find some way to strengthen or armor.

You’ve learned to be very, very careful with your body.

But what if fragility is also a gift…?

I must have been about four when my dad put a sweet little blue robin’s egg in my cupped hands. It has fallen out of the nest, he told me. There’s a little tiny bird inside that will die now.

I remember the feeling of holding carefully. Of felt loss. I had no words yet. The muse of poetry was still its own embryo inside me somewhere. But I remember how it felt. How I held my breath. How I stilled my frequent fidgeting. How I knew that I had a choice of some kind - to be gentle, or to be cavalier. Curious or vicious. There were kids I knew who would derive much glee from smashing that little egg into the ground or the tree from which it fell. I knew I could not be one of them. I wanted to know what that baby bird looked like inside there. I wanted to be able to save it.

To this day, I love robin’s eggs. I love any kind of birds eggs that I happen upon. I love being able to be that gentle, to feel that loss, if only for a few minutes.

I have discovered that one of the gifts of living with fragility is experiencing the genuine care and warm compassion of so many around me. In spite of how I often feel physically, I always feel emotionally held and cherished. It seems I have value, even when I feel that I have nothing to contribute. I am worth their time and effort.

I have discovered that the more fragile I have grown, the more their cloaks of compassion have wrapped me up closely. My fragility does not seem to put most folks off. Rather, it seems to draw them near. They want to offer safety, but not by being too careful. Rather, by being extraordinarily unselfish.

I will wager that this is true for you as well. For the people who are moved to be gentle and compassionate, your fragility gives them a chance to offer their care. To give them the sense of standing gently with a fragile soul in their cupped hands. Your fragility is not a burden to these folk. It is the gift of a moment in their life to hold a little blue robin’s egg in their cupped hands.

And here’s another thing… the more fragile you become, the more self-compassionate you can also become, even if there’s no one around to care for you. No more criticizing or berating or complaining. No more tense worrying. Just a soft gentle approach to your own body and your own abilities.

Yes, it’s still important that you try not to fall down and break a hip, or exceed your energy envelope and drop into a crash, or stop taking life-saving meds, or stray from your healthy diet. But rather than seeing fragility as a liability, you can also see it as an opportunity for the exchange of care and compassion. And that benefits both the giver and the receiver.

You didn’t know you still had so much to offer to the world, did you?

Let me know how this shift of perspective changes you if you like…