The Strength in Frailty

When I was younger, I might have foolishly seen an older person, hunched over, arthritic, and thought of myself as strong by comparison. But I’ve learned to see that same person as full of might. Strength is not just a measure of capacity. It is also a measure of being.

As I was walking in the city today I saw an old man moving slowly with his walker. He was taking in the sights and smells of the Italian Market. The bones of his hands were thick like rock. And despite what I can assume was a tremendous effort to stay in motion, he did stay in motion, and smiled easily and joyfully at others.

Just being takes strength. And the harder it becomes, the stronger the being.

Battered and drenched lighthouse keepers, holding their lamps into the dark, despite the pounding nor’easter.

Beings slowly, painfully, beautifully waltzing through each day’s dance, like Fred Astaire, only backwards, in heels, and with torn cartilage and leaking valves.

Young man, you think you’re mighty? Wielding your sharp wit, easy movement, and clever schemes? It’s almost cheating how you do it with youth.

When we see frailty slowly marching down the street, cane or walker in tow, or feel it in our very being, we should instead conjure:

A mountain, moving. Rolled steel, rolling. A luminous being, being.

A Mighty Oak that can withstand yet another lightning strike.