Is it possible to be connected and yet disconnected at the same time? To feel as though part of you is somewhere else entirely, digesting and analyzing deep and disturbing images and thoughts, agonizing over the things that keep going wrong, while all the while another whole part of you is fully in the moment, feeling the sun on her face and savoring the sweet sensation of holding her daughter's hand, the warmth of her lover's palm on the back of her neck, the laughter of children as they splash and play in the pool - is this just another way of being?
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I was able, with a little detective work, to find some information on the man I found on Tuesday morning. I know his name, and his age and I was able yesterday to contact his brother out of the state. His brother was at work, but I spoke for a time with his wife and I learned that this man, this good man, had discovered recently that he had a terminal illness. He didn't want to suffer and he didn't want to burden his family. He didn't have a wife or children, but he had a good life and he had many things he enjoyed doing. He was a good brother, she told me. And this helps. It helps me work blurring the images that keep crowding my mind of the shotgun and his legs and his feet in the hiking boots and his skin so pale in the hot morning sun. The hat on the ground. Those images have haunted me all week, almost constantly for the first several days. The frequency seems to be lessening, and I'm thankful.
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Mom, what's a sexual predator? my daughter asked me last night on the way home. Where did you hear that term? I asked. It was in the mail on that card, she says. A notice from a citizen's group about a registered offender who has moved into the neighborhood. I try to explain in a way that remarks the seriousness of this but also lets my child know that she is safe, that I will keep her safe, that no one is trying to climb into her window at night and take her away from me. This world is such a terrifying place. If it scares me I can only imagine what it does to my children. I tell my children of their aunt and what happened to her and her siblings as a child. They don't understand how her mother could let this happen, not protect her children. They ask about adoption and why I have two mothers. A long car ride is consumed by these discussions, and I am struck again by my children's sensitivity, perceptiveness, kindness and how much they depend on me to help them make sense of the world.
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I was thinking of starting to grow my hair out, not all the way but a little bit. I held off cutting it for a while. Then this week came along and I attacked it with the scissors and put it back to the uniformly short crop I feel so comfortable with. And I realize that my emotions and my experiences almost always physically manifest with me - I cut my hair or I color it. I get a tattoo. I put black polish on my toes or I pierce something. I buy a shirt that says something angry or shocking. Always be wary when I'm wearing the black nail polish.
