Carrying heavy things

The other day a dear friend of mine sent a rather large box of goodies from the UK. I had to collect it from the posti and take it back to my place. The posti was 700 metres away, but it was the day after Vappu and my body seriously regretted trying to play rugby and drink like a Finn. I had to open the parcel at the posti and then carry it back 700 metres.

You would think this was easy.

But it wouldn't comfortably go: under the arm, in front of me, to my side, on my head, under the other arm, in both arms, on my shoulder or cradled like a baby.

The trick with heavy things, is to know how to carry them.

It's no secret that January till now has been a personal hell for me. Far from my 30th year being one of learning, wisdom, fresh challenges and adventure, it has instead been peppered with c0ck ups. And the result is a rather large box of troubles that have to go a greater distance tharn 700 metres.

I think I have learned to carry them.

Waking up knowing you have not cried your last tear, but at least wailed your last wail. Waking up feeling the steely ring around your heart, but knowing it will one day come down in a terrific moment to music and light like the Berlin Wall. Knowing that you said a civilian goodbye to part of your grief. Knowing that you will still hurt, still feel alone but now know how to carry it.

I feel what I carry but it doesn't weigh down just one shoulder or push on my back. It doesn't have awkward straps or parcel string that cuts into fingers. It's just an extra weight, like a teenage girl who woke up fat with breasts or puberty. It's something I just carry.

Exactly a fortnight till I turn 30. Perhaps with the weight properly distributed I can turn this corner...