I can't remember the day I broke her hand, but I remember the moment. She was on my nightstand, reaching for the sky outside my bedroom window and I was dusting. I knocked her over and she plummeted to the wooden floor below. For me, such a fall would have been no big deal. For her, it was the equivalent of a three story plummet. As she landed, her hand broke off, scittered across the wood and disappeared through the dark slits of a nearby heating vent. I reached down for her through a cloud of Lemon Pledge and gingerly placed her back on the nightstand.
That was years ago, and she still stands there, reaching serenely and faithfully for something she could never grasp, even if she got close enough to touch it. I keep her there because she reminds me that there is a kind of freedom in the act of reaching itself. She reminds me to stay curious about the things I will never comprehend, to remain reverent in the midst of mysteries I will never solve. She inspires me to stretch my body and my mind every single day, because there is joy in creating space within and because the most freedom I will ever experience will be with an open mind.
Like her, I know I will never grasp the things that matter most - the real meaning of love, the purpose of suffering, why I can almost always remain stoic in the face of pain, but often cry when I hear music, why dogs are so happy, why we can't stop war. I know I will never grasp who or what God is not because I don't try, but because I don't have the right equipment.
But every day, like her, I stand on my toes and reach as far as I can with my arms and my mind. And sometimes, when I'm very open and quiet, I think I can feel the laughter of God deep in the spaces inside me, but I can never quite grasp it.
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