Hi, everyone. I know you're there, even though most of you never make a peep. I am feeling extra connected to the whole raggedy human family today, and I can see you and feel you.
It's not often that you walk down the street and know that most people are thinking the same thing you are thinking, but that's how it's been today. Even the cashier at Whole Foods, or the person who is backing out their car as you negotiate with your eyes which person will go first, or the person at the post office who takes your package -- everyone, in the spaces between other things, is thinking about what happened to those families yesterday.
We keep moving through our days, we the lucky ones who have days that are far enough from the tragedy not to be wholly paralyzed by it. But there is something within that you can feel in your belly, and now and then you think, "What is this I am feeling?" and then you remember. The feeling surges for a long moment, like a wail, and then you go back to putting away the groceries. You have a brief conversation with someone you love. It is mundane, soothing in its smallness. Did you give the dog his aspirin? You wrap the aspirin in some goat cheese and the dog snarfs it into his toothless mouth. As you rinse off your fingertips, there is a space again. You let the water run over your hands, and you picture those children, and the parents who loved them, the sisters and brothers and grandparents and cousins and uncles and aunts and teachers and friends and neighbors and people driving by on Route 84 and people cooking supper for their families on the other side of the world. You come back to the unimaginable scene that you must imagine, and you think of the people who searched for their children afterwards and squeezed them so hard, sobbing with relief and grief, somehow both in one agonized, joyful, excruciating embrace. And then you imagine the unimaginable experience of the parents whose children were not in the crowd of living, breathing, crying children, and you can see those parents shatter into pieces, you can hear the howl of their pain and you realize you might not be able to bear what they are having to bear.
It all happens in that long moment standing by the sink. You turn off the water and don't know what else to do than to go back to what you were doing and wait for the next surge of sadness.
This is how we know that we are bits of one large thing; it is this feeling in my belly and in yours. I know you are there. I can see you and feel you.
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Yes! So perfectly spoken, p. How we all wish that you hadn't had to form these words for us. Such unspeakable horror and unimaginable pain. Thank you for putting this into words, for being our connected voice. Standing here in the circle of love to help hold what must be such inconsolable sorrow. Safe keeping to all.....
ReplyDeleteOh Paula, it's a belly feeling indeed.
ReplyDeleteLove R&R
Yes, it is a sick, anxious feeling and, as you've beautifully written, Paula, a feeling that connects all of us.
ReplyDeleteMy own mind keeps wandering to the slaughter scene that I can only too easily imagine and then I have to slam that door shut. I work in an elementary school school. I see the open, inquiring, trusting faces of the first graders I know, their names, the cute way they wave to me, "Hi Nurse", when they file past me in the hallway.
I see the little boy who comes into my office once a month or so with a complaint of a headache or stomachache, looking perfectly fine, and then, unfailingly, after I've sent him back to class, he pauses at my door and turns around to ask me, "Do you have any more (dental) gift bags?" I see the huge smile on his face when I occasionally give in and hand him another bag containing a toothbrush, a small tube of toothpaste, a sticker and a pencil, knowing, guiltily, that I am probably causing problems back in his kindergarten room and reinforcing some budding hypochondria in him.
But this morning, I think, "So what?" If he wants it that badly, he can have it.
Last night, I went to the christmas concert at St Michaels Church where the children's choir performed - the childrens' choir is comprised of children K-12, where Melinda has been a member since she was in kindergarten 7 years ago.
ReplyDeleteAs the children filed into the church singing carols, I was overcome with the emotions you describe - how could those parents bear it? I know I couldn't - looking at those faces ...I had to look away - focus on singing the words on the page...
The concert was lovely, candlelight, the children sang beautifully - afterwards, we had a delicious pot luck supper
I was filled with gratitude for the community - for the people I know and who know me, families with children I've watched grow up along side my own daughter.
I hope those families in newtown feel similar comfort of their communities -
we shouldn't have to feel this - but we are not alone -
Your words help so much
Love, Sal
So true. Great post, Paula.
ReplyDeleteAlong with the sad ache, the happy things feel all the more poignant these days, which is a good thing. I sat and watched Obama's speech to Newtown last night with a dozen adults after an evening 5k Christmas run through the neighborhood. I felt so grateful to be surrounded by others -- something that might not have registered a week ago.