The Weight

I'm standing at the top of a a cliff in an abandoned iron mine, looking down into some of the clearest water I have ever seen. Friends are treading water beneath me urging me to jump. I, being deathly afraid of heights, am standing at the top shaking so hard I'm afraid I may just vibrate off the edge. One of the friends in the water is calling encouragements up to me and saying that even if I don't jump in it's all right, because I'm obviously terrified. For whatever reason, his kindness was the push I need. I screamed an obscenity and jumped.

My mantra while attending graduate school was "I want this to be challenging, but not difficult." The distinction, at least to me, was that something challenging would force me to think, grow, change my perspective. Things that were difficult were the equivalent of beating my head against a desk for an hour and a half. They were painful without the reward of growth. I like the sensations of mastering a new set of skills, stretching myself intellectually and physically, overcoming a fear.

Cliff-jumping, as I learned, is challenging. It's also fun.

***

I've never really had a difficult time making friends. Oddly enough, both my nerdiness and introversion have proved to be great assets in meeting new people. I'd rather listen than talk, so I'm inclined to ask a lot of questions and I'm generally curious about other people. More than once knowing with that "T.I.E" stands for in T.I.E Fighter or a shared enthusiasm for Abraham Lincoln has led to intense friendships. I don't have large groups of friends, but the ones I have are as close to me as my family. 

As a group, we have songs that we sing when we get together. Many of my best memories involve a bluegrass rendition of Billie Jean or a group sing-along of Wagon Wheel. One of the songs, surprisingly, is one from my childhood called "The Weight." You may have heard it, it's one of those songs that's been covered 3,000 times. Its chorus runs:

Take a load off, Fanny.

Take a load off for free.

Take a load off, Fanny.

Put the load right on me. 

It's a song I love in no small part because there's always been something significant for me in singing that chorus with the group of people who I love and trust most in the world. We've shared one another's major milestones and disappointments. They've held my hand while I've cried sitting through Prairie Home Companion at the Fitzgerald and argued with me about politics and God's existence. When I'm facing something difficult, they're the ones I call.  As a person who doesn't share herself easily, the inroads they've made with me are astounding. They have managed to convince me that sharing one another's joys as well as disappointments makes things just a little bit lighter.

***

The past year has been one of the most difficult of my life. I've had my fair share of challenging situations. I started a new job with a new skill set and a new level or responsibility. I've started dating again after being on a year and a half hiatus. I've moved hours away from my closest friends. It's this last thing that has moved everything else from "challenging" and way past "difficult" to "really fucking hard." I'm used to being able to walk a few blocks or drive five miles and talk to people who know and love me. More often than not, when things go wrong they don't go hugely, drastically, life-changingly wrong. They just go a little awry. But something that has shocked me has been how these small disappointments manage to add up after time when I can't tell them to someone over a beer or while listening to American Routes.

Over the past weeks I've managed to meet a group of people whose company I enjoy tremendously. They're bright and funny and have been more welcoming than anyone I've met in my year here. We'll go out for a drink or have a meal and a bonfire and it's fun. I don't talk much, and when I generally open my mouth it's to ask a question, make an joke, or share my love for space or romance novels. But when it comes to sharing something meaningful, some part of the weight that's been accumulating for the past year, I find myself freezing up. It feels like I'm standing on the edge of that cliff in the Iron Range. I can keep holding back, keep the things that are meaningful or difficult for the people who live hundreds of miles away from me. Or I can trust in the kindness and hospitality of the people here, let loose an obscenity, and jump.