Wednesday, January 04, 2006What They Can DoWhat they took: my laptop, my backup hard drive, Taylor's Game Boy and DVD player. Spencer's iPod. The broken Game Cube. My brand new printer.What they did: opened a window, upended all the drawers in the bedrooms, dumped our lives on the floor, threw what they wanted into backpacks, and left. In the process they also ransacked our sense of safety, the sleep from our nights, and trashed countless hours of golden time. My kids discovered it first. I had asked Gloria, our friend and the kids' caregiver, to watch them last night while I was a guest at a book group in Simi Valley. They entered the house; Gloria went to the kitchen to make dinner and the boys went to their rooms. The situation was immediately apparent. The kids went into hysterics, called me at the book group. I made hasty apologies and left Simi. En route home I called everyone I knew. The men were either busy or too far away. The women who were home dropped everything and came over. Bridget, Skye and Cindy swooped down to my house like the Powerpuff Girls, each with their super power. Bridget was super-mom, enveloping the kids into her sphere of compassion and infinite heart. Cindy immediately commandiered the physical space and took the security detail. She talked her way into OSH after closing, bought a dozen window locks, and proceeded to lock down the perimeter. Meanwhile, Skye was taking pictures, dispensing hugs and digging through the debris in my room to find the sage, which she lit and carried from room to room, cleansing the air and the vibes. Our brains say it's just stuff. Our brains remind us that the pain we feel at our beloved objects' loss can be fixed. But the pain can't be diminished yet. The violation I feel at the thought of someone else using my laptop is beyond my ability to express. My LAPTOP. The thing I carried for months while writing the book. The seven-pound item that was as much a part of my body prior to the birth of the book as my belly was when I had my kids. The thought of someone in there, touching the keyboard, reading my email, deleting my unsaved words, makes me woozy with anxiety and pain. The kids feel it, too, with their beloved objects: The camera that Spencer carried to Europe with him (the pictures safely loaded onto his laptop, that he thankfully had with him), Taylor's portable DVD player he got last Christmas, the Game Boy, the iPod that Spencer begged for and loved more than anything ... beloved objects, saturated with hours of happy trusting enjoyment. Gone. My brain again tries to tell me it's just stuff. Replaceable. And it's right. But our hearts still yearn. Not only for the beloved object, but also for the happy trust we once had. They took that happy trust. Our lives are now about worrying and watching. We will get an alarm. We may get a dog. We will light up our perimeter. We will put locks on the windows. Can they take the beloved objects? Yes. Can they rob us of our sleep and peace of mind for awhile? Yes. Can they violate us at a level that will take much time to heal? Sadly, but honestly, yes. What they can't take aware are our memories of Paris. The image of Cindy checking the torque on the drill. The warm nest of blankets on sofas and floors at Bridget's, a haven that she created for us when it was apparent we were too freaked out to stay in the house, still strewn with belongings and the smear of violation. They cannot take away Skye and her camera, appearing at our door. Or Gloria's tears as she feeds the kids. They can't rob me of the constant phone calls I received today, full of love and concern. They can't rob us of this story, that will go down in our collective history as one of hardship and triumph. They can't erase our moment tonight, walking slowly with burning sage, picked flowers, a small running fountain and a candle (air, earth, water, fire), slowly touching all points of our property... first counterclockwise to release the bad, and then clockwise to seal in the good ... the oldest son going first, holding the smudge stick, then me with the water and flowers, and then my youngest son with the candle glowing in his hands. They can't erase that sense of ownership and sadness and reverence a ritual can provide. They can't erase the deep symbolisms and strange mysticisms that change a place and a participant, regardless of your level of belief. What they did not take: the deep skeins of love that bind us all together, the experience of community that a well-met emergency creates, our sense of family, the sense of joy that will come despite the loss. What they did not do: break us, make it impossible for us to ever trust again, stop us from breathing once again, eventually recover. Whoever you are out there -- you have our beloved objects, but we are still rich with belief that happiness can still exist outside of them. You think the Game Cube gives you the same feeling that belonging to a tribe of true and great friends does. It does not. You think my computer, stolen from beside my bed, will give you the intense richness of experience it has given me. It will not. You think the thrill of breaking into a house inhabited by two kids and a woman can give you a high that obliterates the pain of being young, male and alive. It cannot -- and only makes the pain worse. The pain is worse going out the window than it was coming in. Why? Because you have done wrong. Because you have violated. Because you are living so far from the running river of life that you are lost and bereft and capable only of making children cry. # posted by Katherine Doughtie Nolan @ 6:35 PM  
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