Freedom and Equilibrium
“In my class, the most crucial rule is punctuality—just be on time for everything. If the class starts at eight, show up a few minutes early so you’re ready and fully prepared by eight,” the professor states firmly, his voice resonating across the room.
“This year, our class will be a journey into the world of poetry, but with a twist,” he continues, his tone softening as he reaches into his well-worn leather briefcase and pulls out a stack of crumpled papers.
“Through narration and reading, I will be taking you to the place where I was born and grew up.”
He glances briefly at the class, then looks down at the papers in his hand.
“Here we go,” he says, signaling the start of the journey.
I was born in 1954 in the small town of Hay-on-Wye, Wales. Back then, my birthplace was still medieval—literally. This was evident not only in its architecture and traditions but also in the mindset of much of its population.
Many traditions were rigidly upheld, serving to protect the village’s character and folklore from the winds of change sweeping across the kingdom. My unexpected birth took place while my parents were still living in post-war Britain, which, nearly a decade after World War II, still bore open wounds, painful scars, and suffered economically, especially in the countryside. Reconstruction and repair of Great Britain’s infrastructure were still ongoing in some of the most heavily ravaged areas. Entire families had been decimated. It was common for at least one family member not to have returned from the war.
Many who did come home were severely wounded—physically and, even more often, emotionally. At that time, Britain felt like a nation divided into two worlds: one part moving forward, and the other still grappling with the aftermath of a devastating conflict.
My hometown, however, possessed a unique charm. Its hamlets and cottages, pubs and narrow streets, and hand-painted store signs—all in picturesque yet muted tones—made it unforgettable. The town is renowned for its countless antique book merchants. Each tiny shop is a treasure trove of aged books, some of immense value and importance, with a few being the only surviving copies. Others are exquisitely written and illustrated by hand. Every store has its share of mysteries and secrets, labyrinths of knowledge waiting to be explored.
Some of the shops are surprisingly spacious, with cavernous interiors. Ancient books surround you—stacked in piles, nestled in wooden cabinets, seemingly everywhere you turn. Certain books are off-limits, preserved in air-ventilated, locked containers, while others are accessible to curious hands. Inside these bookshops, the scent of old paper and leather mingles with layers of dust, creating an atmosphere both enchanting and timeless. Adding to the mystique are the shopkeepers—erudite, often eccentric, and occasionally enigmatic—many of whom are the proprietors themselves.
I was raised among these bookshelves, driven by my insatiable curiosity and a willingness to learn from the knowledgeable shopkeepers.
Throughout my childhood, I gravitated toward the brightest and most tolerant of these antiquarians—those patient enough to endure the frequent visits of an inquisitive, persistent youngster eager to uncover their treasures.
Thanks to a scholarship to Oxford, I left town for good in my late teens. By then, I had explored countless mysteries and amassed a wealth of knowledge I had yet to share with anyone. But all of that comes much later…
It all begins right after my eighth birthday.
I first see him at Mrs. Coe’s shop. He has an incredibly funny-looking handlebar mustache that curls at the ends, and he keeps twirling it as if it’s second nature. His striking green eyes are enormous, brimming with curiosity, and his lips are pursed into what looks like a tiny, frozen kiss. Intrigued, I watch him from afar, studying his movements until he pays, waves goodbye, and tips his tam-o’-shanter to Mrs. Coe.
As he steps out, he glances over and squints at me. For reasons I can’t quite grasp, I feel compelled to follow him. Keeping a safe distance—always about twenty steps behind—I trail him through eight winding streets until he enters a bookshop.
A couple of minutes later, I gather my courage and step inside too. Little do I know that this small act will draw me into a world that will steer my life toward an endless journey of discovery and the pursuit of knowledge.
“Come right in, come on, young lad. Don’t be shy… You must be into books, right?” says the man I’ve been following.
“Right, sir,” I reply.
“Well, well, well. You’ve come to the right place,” he says, flashing an enormous smile while twirling his eccentric mustache.
From that day on, once a week after school, I would spend hours exploring what became my favorite place on Earth: The Morris-Rose and Sons antique bookshop (est. 1832). Over time, Justin Morris IV, the shop owner, not only offered me a quiet space to sit and read but also began engaging me in long conversations.
One day, he selects for me a leather-bound manuscript that immediately captures my imagination. That manuscript becomes a gateway to a world of wisdom and wonder, sparking a journey I could never have anticipated.
Yesterday, as I tried to enter quietly while he was busy with customers, my clumsiness betrayed me. The shop’s old bicycle bell wound and unwound in agonizingly slow motion, announcing my arrival. Then, to make matters worse, I tripped—twice—over the same old book lying on the floor. So much for a discreet entrance.
Today, walking on pins and needles, I navigate carefully through the store to my little reading nook. My heart races as I catch sight of the gold-burnished pages of my beloved, gigantic “good old” book waiting for me in its familiar spot.
Sometime later, after all his customers leave, he approaches and sits beside me.
It’s been another timeless two hours with my eccentric, self-appointed mentor—a fitting and fortunate role for a single child with an overactive imagination, a natural inclination toward the land of dreams, and an ever-growing love for books.
“Why are the pages and the letters so large?” I ask, curiosity piqued.
“Some claim that those were the only sizes of paper available at the time,” he replies with a twinkle in his eye. “Others suggest that without proper lighting or reading glasses, writers had to enlarge their work just to see what they were doing.”
I nod thoughtfully, returning my attention to the text. “Freedom lies within you,” I read aloud, painstakingly translating the Old English with a dictionary in hand. My tone asks for validation, but it’s pointless—I can’t make sense of it. After countless days of trying, I remain stuck, unable to decipher the meaning of the giant, ancient book.
He notices my frustration and leans in with infinite patience, the hallmark of a true teacher. “In life, there are always opposing forces pulling and pushing us to extremes,” he begins. “A flow, like the pendulum of a clock, swings us from one side to the other. Balance is to find freedom within life’s pendulum—like moving with the rhythm of a metronome.”
I sit perfectly still, staring at the hand-painted image on the oversized, yellowed page. His calm, watchful eyes encourage me to persist. “Erasmus,” he says softly, “lift the book and look at the spine from the top.”
Puzzled, I follow his instruction. There, wedged between the leather cover and the spine, is a folded piece of paper. I carefully pinch it between my fingers and pull it free.
“Go ahead, read it,” he urges with a knowing smile.
THE QUIBBLER AND THE STREET JUGGLER
Standing by the corner
under the broken streetlamp,
on a dusky, foggy, and misty night,
the quibbler does what he always does—
he mumbles and grumbles, rambles and tumbles,
spilling thoughts and words about anyone and anything.
His big blue eyes dart in near darkness,
right and left, left and right.
And they seem, while filled with magnetic intensity,
as if about to pop out
of his eye sockets!
As he stares,
trying to track the pirouettes of the lonely shadow,
he wonders aloud,
“What is it with this fellow?”
Down the street, unaware of being watched,
he juggles while sitting high above the cobblestones,
pedaling the single wheel in quick bursts,
while glued to the saddle,
his body twisting and contorting
into impossible angles, acrobatic circles,
defying gravity with every motion—
backwards, downwards, upwards, and sideways.
He juggles while in balance,
his hands are tirelessly keeping multiple objects
floating in the air,
but never handling more than two at once,
despite the swings, twists, and turns.
He never loses focus or concentration
and does it all with absolute confidence,
and resolute determination.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, but why juggle?”
the quibbler rambles non-stop.
“And so what? ”
Who cares about living a life on the edge,
filled with contortions and near misses
at every turn?”
“Because that’s what we do in life,”
reason whispers back.
“We juggle and strive to maintain balance,
and through practice and experience,
we aim to master both—
just as he does—
until they feel second nature.”
Finally,
reason prevails, and the quibbler concedes,
“As the juggler does,
again and again,
we strive and struggle through the streets of life,
sometimes by defying the impossible
and the improbable.
That’s what we do,
That’s who we are—
we seek, we find, we conquer,
then hang on for dear life.
“To maintain balance and master the art of juggling,
requires a disciplined and relentless effort,
for they are both essential keys,
to a wholesome and well-grounded life.”
As I finish reading, I vividly picture the acrobat’s movements— I can feel his freedom, almost touch it. “So, in life, you must juggle to maintain balance,” my mentor begins, his voice steady and deliberate. “But to do so, you’ll need to learn and practice endlessly. Both will grant you the knowledge, experience, and self-confidence to execute the seemingly impossible without fear. Mind you, like the quibbler, you’ll always be surrounded by ignorance and pessimism. The naysayers will always be there—until your results silence them. Above all, never forget that maintaining balance requires continuous hard work.”
I hang on his every word, wishing he would continue, but that’s his style: precise, in motion, brief, and always to the point.
“All right then,” Mr. Morris says emphatically, already engrossed in selecting our next reading.
He flips through the enormous pages of the book until he finds what he’s looking for. Carefully, he sets the open book in front of me. On the right side, I see a hand-painted image of a tightrope walker suspended high above a crowd of onlookers. Then my eyes catch the poem beneath it.
I glance over the lines briefly before starting to read them aloud.
Our lives resemble those
of circus equilibrists.
We walk through a thin and narrow,
yet solid wire—
our emotional life.
The wire serves as our support system,
crafted from thousands of filaments
tightly wound together.
Embedded within it lie, among others,
our feelings, faith, friends, and family.
Equilibrium is demanding and challenging,
requiring relentless focus, practice, and attention.
Just as the wire does,
life swings,
up and down, right and left.
As the tightrope walker
glides each slipper forward,
gently caressing the wire,
his feat, like our lives,
becomes a delicate balancing act.
The more he, like us, hones his sense of balance,
the more wisdom and experience he acquires,
the more self-confident he becomes.
For a man on a wire
near perfection is essential
with each of his well-choreographed moves.
Without a solid emotional life supporting us,
like the wire of an equilibrist,
there can be no balance in life.
When we fall into excesses of effort (like work),
or excesses of discharge (like fun),
we lose our equilibrium
and tumble from the wire.
The safety nets below,
if we are fortunate to have them,
become our lifesavers.
When supported by the wire,
and if we attain sound self-confidence,
we can walk unaided
through the swings of life.
But the ultimate balance
is only attained by the Equilibrist,
with the harmonic pole—
which is Love.
“Are we all equilibrists, Mr. Morris?” I ask.
“No, but we all should strive to be,” he replies.
“Besides avoiding falling from the tightrope into excesses, why should we?”
“Balance is one of the foundations of happiness,” he explains.
“But as important as balance is, the true message beneath this writing is about inner freedom. Freedom is perilous, my boy. It begins within you, and its practice demands a kind of self-confidence that only experience and knowledge can provide.”
He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing.
“There’s no truer expression of the power that inner freedom gives than the performance of an acrobat. An acrobat thrives on it and performs because he draws strength from that freedom within.” As he speaks, a profound realization dawns on me: I am the one who must be free inside.
“Freedom lies within me,” I blurt out, nodding as a quiet, knowing smile forms on my lips.
The words hang in the air of the old bookshop, mingling with the faint smell of aged paper and leather. They linger over the rows of antique books that have fulfilled their mission brilliantly for me today.
And that’s how it all begins—with four words. A young boy captivated by ancient books and a wise old man who becomes a guiding light. From that day forward and forevermore, I have called him The Equilibrist.
As the professor closes his narration, a contemplative silence settles over the room. He lets it stand, in no hurry to break the spell. Then, a hand goes up in the second row.
“Yes, Meera.”
Meera is a philosophy major, the kind who can seldom meet a poem without reaching for the larger question beneath it.
“Professor, in The Quibbler and the Street Juggler, the quibbler represents pessimism and ignorance while the juggler embodies mastery and balance. Do you think the quibbler could also symbolize a part of us—the internal voice of doubt—rather than just external negativity? And if so, how do we silence it while striving for equilibrium?”
“An excellent observation, Meera. The quibbler indeed mirrors not only external naysayers but also our inner critic. Silencing it isn’t as simple as ignoring it; instead, we must learn to channel its energy. The quibbler’s constant questioning, when reframed, can sharpen our focus and fuel our determination. Mastery and balance are achieved when we allow reason and perseverance to guide us, transforming doubt into strength.”
Meera turns this over, and does not look entirely persuaded. “But channeling doubt takes its own kind of strength,” she presses. “What if the quibbler wears you down before you can ever reframe it?” The professor’s eyes brighten, as though he has been waiting all morning for that very objection. “Then you have found the heart of it, Meera. Balance is not a place we reach and keep—it is a thing we choose, and choose again. The wire never stops trembling beneath the equilibrist’s feet, nor beneath ours. That we must keep our footing anyway is not the flaw in the art. It is the art.”
A hand rises near the back—Liam, a physics student with a flair for connecting science and art.
“Professor, in The Equilibrist, the metaphor of the tightrope walker emphasizes the importance of balance in life. But you also mentioned the ‘harmonic pole’ of Love as the ultimate tool for equilibrium. Could you elaborate on how love functions in this metaphor? Is it a stabilizer, or does it create its own challenges for the equilibrist?”
“Ah, Liam, you’ve touched on one of the poem’s most profound layers. The harmonic pole of Love is indeed a stabilizer, but it’s also a force that requires delicate handling. Love steadies us by giving purpose and meaning to our balancing act. Yet, like the equilibrist’s pole, it demands effort, skill, and care to maintain. Mismanage it, and it can throw you off balance entirely. True love, however—be it romantic, familial, or platonic—guides the equilibrist, making the walk through life’s challenges more purposeful.”
Liam sits back, turning the thought over.
Last, by the windows, Elena raises her hand—an aspiring writer and literature major, her questions forever circling freedom and creativity.
“Professor, in The Equilibrist, you mention that freedom begins within and is tied to balance and self-confidence. But in The Quibbler and the Street Juggler, freedom seems more linked to overcoming ignorance and external forces. How do these two poems reconcile their definitions of freedom? Are they two sides of the same coin, or is there a deeper distinction between inner and outer freedom?”
“Insightful as always, Elena. The two poems indeed approach freedom from different perspectives. The Quibbler and the Street Juggler emphasizes freedom as a triumph over external forces— ignorance, doubt, and societal expectations. Meanwhile, The Equilibrist focuses on inner freedom, achieved through self-discipline, balance, and confidence. Yet, these are not opposing ideas; they are interdependent. Outer freedom is incomplete without inner liberation, and inner freedom loses its meaning without engaging the world. Together, they form a complete picture of what it means to truly be free.”
Elena doesn’t write anything down. She only nods, slowly, the way one does when an answer has landed somewhere to be returned to later.
Time has evaporated in the blink of an eye. The dismissal bell snaps both the class and the professor out of their shared trance, pulling everyone back to the present.
“And with that, we conclude today’s journey. Reflect on these ideas as you go about your week. Remember, poetry isn’t just words on a page; it’s a lens through which we view and shape our lives. Class, we’ll continue my life’s journey next week,” the professor announces, his voice tinged with both finality and promise. “See you all next time.”
The class begins to file out, buzzing with thoughtful discussions as the weight of the professor’s words lingers in the air.