My Dear One,

Elementary school art class.  The first day I used the technique called papier mâché.  A messy process, and one I did not enjoy because of the distasteful way the paste made my hands feel.  We all had a balloon, and dipped strips of newspaper into the paste, applying them to the balloon, layer upon layer, over and over in what seemed to be a never-ending process.  Memory does not recall what was eventually made of those circular shapes; human heads or the beginnings of some animal, no doubt.  But memory does recall the horror I felt at thinking of that poor balloon, weighed down and constricted by so many plastered pieces.  Why I had so much sympathy for an inanimate object, I did not know, but the angst was real.  The smooth colorful surface, marred by sloppy gooey paste, and covered with yesterday’s news.  Left to dry in a tray, time hardening the surface in a black and white smeared scar.  We had something in common, that balloon and me, although it took me many more years beyond my elementary self to figure it out.

It all starts out so innocently enough, the light-as-air balloon, free to float in the sky; no worries tethering it to the ground below.  It goes where the wind wills; it drifts from current to current, riding the air on each one, nothing to impede its flight.  When does the time arrive where it starts losing air, and starts drifting to the ground below?  What makes the balloon start to feel the need to cover up, for protection, for layers?  It doesn’t happen all at once, this disguising of the true balloon self, just a little layer here, a little layer there … some added by human hands, some added by the balloon itself.  The balloon is still floating, so it doesn’t realize what is happening.  Like the frog in the kettle as the heat slowly turns up, so it is with the added weight.  Its trajectory is now on a downward spiral, but the balloon is mostly unaware.  Little by little, the ground inches nearer until one day, it touches the dirt.  No matter how much it wants to fly again in the open air, it cannot.  The balloon is now weighed down by the strips which were once soft and pliable, but have now been hardened by all the breezes.  Breezes which were thought to be trusted, but became the enemy.

The ground is a scary place, and not where the balloon was meant to live.  It gets kicked around and chased.  Picked up, only to have someone attempt to squeeze the air out of it.  Most do not know what it is; they do not see the balloon, as it is unrecognizable with all its papery layers.  Unseen for its true beauty, it has become a time-wearied traveler, plastered with smeared sentences and words from someone else’s pen.  It’s a sad existence; from freedom-in-flight to earth-restricted.  Knowing what’s up there above, but unable to return.

Inevitably comes the day when it recognizes the need to be free of the entrapments, all which would weigh it down any longer.  Tired of being tied to the ground, not being able to float uninhibited.  But to be free is to lose the layers … this the balloon has learned.  Freedom can only be accomplished by removing one layer at a time.  Each layer that comes off will cause pain.  After all, the deeper you get into the layers, the longer they’ve been there, and the harder they’re stuck.  Like ripping a bandage off a wound, each strip removed is a difficult process, and will leave behind a scar.  The balloon wonders if the freedom achieved will be worth the pain.  But the sky is calling its name, wooing it to return to the blue grandeur.  Away from the crowded ground below, and into the blue deep space.  Its love letter in skywriting, the message clear to see …

But the balloon hesitates, deep in thought.  If all the layers are removed, the balloon will be all that is left.  Losing the surrounding strips seems a fearful proposition, but a necessary step in the path to freedom.  But as strange as it sounds, the layers provide comfort.  They have been worn for so long their weight has become akin to a warm blanket.  Nakedness will be acutely felt without their presence.  It’s cold out there without any protection from the elements.  It’s a rough world for a balloon.  A balloon completely stripped of those papery layers is a vulnerable balloon.  Because, after all, what is a balloon?  Just a latex shell, filled with air … nothing visible inside.  Its fate inevitable, if left unprotected.

What to do?

My dear one, what if the balloon is me?

Better leave some layers on, just in case.

All my love,

Your Never Sleeping Beauty

Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides.  ~André Malraux

 

 

Photo credit:  papier mâché head

Photo credit:  free