Carrying a wicker basket makes it impossible to dance; impossible to open my arms and embrace others; or new adventure, life in general, or a future.

It is like I carry a wicker basket around with me, all the time.  Oh, I am quite graceful with it. Sometimes I balance it on my head; other times I rest it on my hip.  Often I carry it in front of me.  Not for many years have I strapped it to my back.  I rarely stoop or struggle.  I have tried to keep it light-to cull out the heavy things. The basket is ¾ full of little things, light things, things that really shouldn’t make a difference.  Nothing big enough to break the basket; nothing heavy enough to cause it to slip through my fingers and crash on the ground.  In fact, it seldom tires me. I am hale and hearty, accustomed to difficult things. Yet, carrying a wicker basket makes it impossible to dance; impossible to open my arms and embrace others; or new adventure, a future, life in general.