GRAVITY

My partner is in Oregon. I have not seen her in six days and I will not see her returned home for six more. The era—and it is an era—has already taken on a heightened degree of emotional and practical ordeal. I am never quite home without her home. I am not fixed in position at all. I am not tethered to the Earth by gravity.

I can understand why she might object to the metaphor. She might not want to be Gravity—Gravity get's a bad rap, we know. We view Gravity too negatively: Gravity as predictable; Gravity as constant; Gravity as constraint; Gravity as necessary, but tedious, obstacle as we reach for the stars. We don't regard the other fundamental forces so unsympathetically—electromagnetism gets to be sexy and nuclear forces are afforded their air of puissance and mystery—even though they'll saddle us with bigger problems down the road.

Gravity can be dangerous when tested, to be sure. Gravity kills. But Gravity also saves. Gravity sets the pancake back down in the pan after you just had to show off. Gravity aids digestion, love-making; it makes riding your bike fun instead of pointless; it keeps the dust from your pencils from floating invisibly, threateningly, into your expensive electronic equipment. Gravity teaches your body to grow strong enough to support your mass and ambition. Gravity keeps you from spinning off into dead space.

Proposition: Gravity the tough-but-fair; Gravity the nurturer; Gravity the life-giver; Gravity the meaning-maker. You'd kiss Gravity every minute if you could. You'd be a fool not to. You'd be nothing without her.