Ruth Marcus

Imagine coming into life and picking out a costume. Some of us reached into the wardrobe and pulled out three-piece suits. Others donned white lab coats and stethoscopes. And still others wore artist smocks, dancer tutus, firefighter helmets and chef aprons.

But did we imagine that in these costumes we'd be circus characters? That we really signed up to play our part in life's big show, the Greatest Show on Earth.

We've been juggling and balancing events and situations and our families and friends for as long as we can remember.

When we signed up for this show, balancing between two galloping horses might not be what we had imagined. Yet, there we are, reins of life in hand, prancing around. Suddenly we realize how vulnerable we are. One foot here and the other there, trying to stay upright, move forward and look good doing it. What a predicament.

Other times, we feel like we're high above everyone else - all eyes looking at us - we stand on that platform anticipating our leap. The tension mounts. Do we marry or not? Do we vote yes or no? Do we take the job or keep looking? Is this the time to take a risk?

It's a great leap of faith as we thrust ourselves out into space, reaching, stretching, grabbing the trapeze like we know what we're doing, soaring through the air with the greatest of ease. Then - oops! Something weakens our hold. Everyone gasps, anticipating our fall, and we pray there will be a net below.

More often than not, we land on our feet. Yet, for some of us, the net of life - hands joined together - seems to be what breaks the fall. Our families, our faith, our friends come to the rescue.

From the tension of the high wire, the calliope below reminds us to take our turn and become one of the clowns. Big red noses, floppy shoes and a necktie draggling along the ground, we trip over ourselves - beep, squeak, honk and flail - twisting, turning silly gestures into reminders to lighten up and have a good time.

That was Ring Number One. Now for Ring Number Two. With top hat and whip, we enter the cage with roaring tigers and lions. With a smile on our face, we crack the whip, raise our palm and command the roaring beasts to sit up on their haunches, take notice - obey.

Applause erupts, we bow, and all the while, we silently pray the wild beasts won't turn on us. Is all this cavorting and posturing really worth the risk?

Then we change costume and strap on the shoulder-suspended tray and go up and down the bleacher steps shouting, "Peanuts! Popcorn! Cracker Jacks!"

Everyone wants to buy what we offer. The sale requires us to reach across four people, exchanging goodies for coins. We gladly do the reaching and the passing - there are some things that taste better when we have to stretch for the give and the take.

A voice booms out: "Ladies and gentlemen, now appearing in the main arena, the acrobats! Agile and lithesome, flexible and faultless. We are expected to come somersaulting and cartwheeling into the ring, like we have bodies that will last forever. Because the show must go on.

A few somersaults later, it's time to carry not one, not two, not three but four people on our shoulders. The guy at the top is getting applause for juggling three burning torches. We're at the bottom of the pyramid carrying the rest and ignoring our aching backs.

Never mind the dust being kicked up by the elephants. We have people depending on us, who need our strength. The show goes on.

And then it happens - elephants setting themselves free. In the panic, the vendor throws up his tray. Peanuts everywhere. Elephants and audience smashing and mashing and squishing the hundreds (maybe thousands) of peanuts, turning them into liquid butter. Peanut butter! Where's the jelly? The show must go on!