Suspension.

I’ve always envisioned humans as flesh and bone, walking around with balloons affixed to strings that are tied onto the various limbs of our bodies. These balloons vary in shape, color and density. Some balloons are filled to the brim, swollen and shiny and buoyant. Others look dreary and quite deflated, and don’t seem to be doing much to keep us afloat.

This concept of humanity being suspended by balloons as we traverse this earth, scaling the peaks and trudging through the valleys, is my anecdote to that song Trampled by Turtles sings, called “Alone.”

The lyrics go something like:

“You come into this world alone /

And you go out of the world alone /

but in between, there’s you and me /

Oh.”

I just can’t get behind the notion that we come into this world alone. We are conceived in a miraculous fusion, cultivated inside of another human being and expelled out of said human’s body after we decide we’re ready to face the outside world without being physically connected to another as our sole life source. Once we’re out, we are at the mercy of those around us who are hopefully more mature, capable and discerning. We are born with a shiny, big balloon tied to our teensy little foot or wrist or finger. It coaxes us into the cold, harsh world, where we float tentatively before gently being placed in the hands of someone who cares; for a moment, for a few months, or if we’re lucky…for a lifetime.

The humans who surround us in those early days continue to inflate our first balloon. The nurses and doctors who are yelling to PUSH HARDER fill up your balloon with their energy. Your mom, or dad, or whatever human is birthing you, fills that same balloon up with the pain, tenacity, courage and insanity that it takes to bring a tiny, living soul onto this planet.

Maybe, as an infant, your balloon continues to fill. Your mother or father nurtures you, and you are blessed with healthy statistics and an immune system that works to ward off disease. Or maybe, your balloon begins to leak slowly, because your mother or father doesn’t know how to love you, or they decide they don’t want you, or they are too scared or alone or financially strapped to fill you up.

However it happens, you remain afloat until someone else can come along and tie another balloon to your slightly bigger foot, or wrist, or finger. Sometimes, it happens right away in the form of a sibling, aunt, uncle, grandma, grandpa, cousin…the list goes on. Other times, it’s a stranger passing you on the street who decides that your cheeks look plump enough to squeeze, and by doing so, inflates your balloon a little more.

As new people enter your life, perhaps they add air into an existing balloon, or maybe they add a new balloon entirely. And sometimes, people will come into your life to pop a balloon - kind of like a real-life Mario Kart scenario.

Sometimes, you drive over the metaphorical banana peel, spin out of control and a balloon pops tragically. Someone calls you an unfamiliar name on the playground and your balloon deflates a little; or someone cuts you down because you dress differently; or you are bigger or smaller than the other people around you, and a bully under the guise of being concerned draws your size to everyone’s attention, and pop! The balloon bursts. It can happen quite quickly, or it can be a slow leak. It doesn’t matter how it happens – it all hurts like hell.

As we grow, we begin to realize that life can be distilled down to something reminiscent of a bumpy, wooden roller coaster ride. I like to envision our respective carts as being propelled by the inflating and deflating of our balloons. Sometimes, new balloons appear seemingly out of thin air, and we skyrocket up. We’re on top of the world! We made the grade, got the job, kissed the boy/girl/frog/whatever! Other times, our balloons slowly inflate and we hold our breaths with eager anticipation for that euphoric feeling we know is waiting just around the bend. Life feels rich and beautiful and effortless. Our inflated balloons assist us in finding meaning amidst the confusion; order amidst the chaos.

And then a balloon promptly deflates, or unexpectedly pops, and we drop down 13 stories like the Tower of Terror, and our stomachs end up in our chests, and we might or might not have peed a little from the sheer panic of the fall. Life feels painful and confusing and infuriating and empty. We fall into the trap of thinking we know better than the Great entity that is really inflating or deflating our balloons. We try to forge ahead alone, hobbling along with our feet barely on the ground, balloons slowly leaking as we move further and further away from connection; from Source; from the things that just might help bring us back to life.

As the story goes, we don’t really know how it all ends…but I have a hunch that this pattern continues. We inflate, we deflate; we float, we fall, for the time we are given to muddle about on Earth. What I do know for certain is that none of us are ever truly alone. Sometimes we just need to be reminded that there is always someone with replenished lungs that wants to breathe a little life back into you. Let them, and watch as you rise together into the bravery of Suspension.