I have always walked through this world as if afraid to touch anything in this china shop of life–afraid that my sudden movements may knock somethings off of their shelves.

And then? Then something might break open and I’d have to pay for it. My pockets are empty so I tiptoe, hoping that by the time I manage to safely reach the exit, I’ll have found that which is meant for me.

I have learned though–there are more durable and resilient beauties here than I first thought, which sends a tiny crack of regret through my body.

“You mean,” I say to myself, “I could have moved less cautiously all along? I could have danced and shaken the floor with both joy and sorrow without consequence?”

I vow to myself, now that I’ve seen more than half of the entire ‘china cabinet’ of life, to “let everything happen to me, beauty and terror,” as Rilke wrote; to tell others what my mind thinks and my body feels.

Hopefully all the beauties lining my path as I continue will resonate and sing along with my joy and lament. When I finally reach the exit, the kindly china shop owner will say, with a twinkle in both eyes, “I hope you moved around enough to loosen the dust in this place. . . or even to knock some things off their shelves. That’s the only way things change around here.”