
Two summers ago, I developed an absurd fear: What if gravity suddenly disappeared and we were all sucked into orbit? I should have paid more attention in physics class, because to this day, I still can’t explain why that doesn’t happen. A quick internet search taught me that all objects with mass – like Earth – bend and curve the fabric of the universe: spacetime. Wait, what?
But why was I lying awake at night, fixated on this conundrum? Why was I doubting something as fundamental as gravity? And why wasn’t everyone else panicking about the possibility of being launched into space?
You could say I’m quite the gravity addict. Not just because of the physical safety it provides, but because I have a knack for seeking out things with gravitas: work, information, people, music, shows, games, environments. My internal system operates like a satellite, scanning for signals of severity and locking into their orbit. Until, eventually, I didn’t just orbit them. I absorbed all their data and made it my own. Then, inevitably, I fell out of orbit – the very thing I had feared all along.
In mutual agreement with my doctor, I took a week to recalibrate. A week to figure out what came next. Luckily, I’d been here before. After my last bout of struggles, wandering in space, I had promised myself to leave my apartment at least once a day. One morning, feeling brave, I even hopped on my bike and rode to the library. There, a book title caught my eye: Frivolity: Why We Can’t Always Be Serious. A sign?
I wonder: how do we strike a balance between a healthy dose of gravity and the risk of being pulled into orbit by too much levity? Perhaps it starts with asking ourselves, and each other the next questions.
- How much gravity is in your life? How much levity?
- How much gravity/ levity is too much?
- How does your body/environment react when one overpowers the other?
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