We have this dog...Butch. He's the sweetest thing ever and very simple minded. He's very skittish though, quick movements, loud noises and rainstorms always startle him. Thunder and lightening and he turns into a nutty canine, pushing his body behind the sofa, tyring to fit behind the dryer, pulling down blinds from the windows and anxiously panting and pacing the floor. Butch and his sister Sunny "live" in the laundry room which is directly connected to the kitchen. Sunny, unlike her brother is a very confident and sometimes obstinate canine. She will saunter in the kitchen to the family room and plop on the floor...in the middle of the doorway. If you think she's going to move as you walk by, think again. Lately however, Butch has developed some fear of "crossing" the threshold into the kitchen and through the family room. He will just stand there a few steps behind the doorway and stare with this blank fear-filled look. We can call him and encourage him to join us watching television; but he will not go through the kitchen. One night we called him and he stood there with a look of utter fear and confusion...should I go, I don't know, is it worth it, I'm not sure...and finally he bolted across the kitchen, feet sliding across the tile, fear-filled eyes wide open until he finally reached the family room. We've gone to calling it the "badlands" as he has deemed it too treacherous and scary to traverse, no matter what may be on the other side. It's only a few steps but he's not going to cross the badlands, not willingly or happily, certainly not because it seemed a thing to do. It is rather odd since he's walked through the kitchen a thousand times over the past 13 years.
I think I understand though; each day as I walk to work my mind is flooded with memories and thoughts. Thoughts hit my brain with recklessness and vividness and I begin to drown in them each morning as I walk an innately familiarly path. Cross the road, climb the stairs, step onto the back terrace, dodge the dripping water, enter the back door, up the stairwell and into my office. It's a path that has changed significantly little in the past 13 years. It's not the work or the place itself, it's all the memories it brings to my mind, it's the familiarity that haunts me. The things of this place cause me to recall the life that was and then daily opens the sorrowful door to that fateful December day and to our lost dreams that died with Wyatt.
My heart begins to race, there is pain, sorrow, tears welling in my eyes, tightness in my chest, and the compelling desire to run the other way, to run from the routine of this place that harbors all those years of life and the dreams of what the sacrifice of being here would afford us. Now, this place so familiar to me I can walk it with my eyes closed, this place that I have spent over a decade visiting almost daily, this place that was so prominent in my life as being mostly a source of a goodness and kindness and stability, is merely a shell that contains all my shattered dreams. Once I'm in, it's mostly ok, it's comfortable, like an old shirt, but getting there requires a daunting and fearful treck across the badlands...and just like Butch, I have to question if it's worth it.
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| Butch Boy |
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| Sunny Girl |
We have this dog...Butch. He's the sweetest thing ever and very simple minded. He's very skittish though, quick movements, loud noises and rainstorms always startle him. Thunder and lightening and he turns into a nutty canine, pushing his body behind the sofa, tyring to fit behind the dryer, pulling down blinds from the windows and anxiously panting and pacing the floor. Butch and his sister Sunny "live" in the laundry room which is directly connected to the kitchen. Sunny, unlike her brother is a very confident and sometimes obstinate canine. She will saunter in the kitchen to the family room and plop on the floor...in the middle of the doorway. If you think she's going to move as you walk by, think again. Lately however, Butch has developed some fear of "crossing" the threshold into the kitchen and through the family room. He will just stand there a few steps behind the doorway and stare with this blank fear-filled look. We can call him and encourage him to join us watching television; but he will not go through the kitchen. One night we called him and he stood there with a look of utter fear and confusion...should I go, I don't know, is it worth it, I'm not sure...and finally he bolted across the kitchen, feet sliding across the tile, fear-filled eyes wide open until he finally reached the family room. We've gone to calling it the "badlands" as he has deemed it too treacherous and scary to traverse, no matter what may be on the other side. It's only a few steps but he's not going to cross the badlands, not willingly or happily, certainly not because it seemed a thing to do. It is rather odd since he's walked through the kitchen a thousand times over the past 13 years.
I think I understand though; each day as I walk to work my mind is flooded with memories and thoughts. Thoughts hit my brain with recklessness and vividness and I begin to drown in them each morning as I walk an innately familiarly path. Cross the road, climb the stairs, step onto the back terrace, dodge the dripping water, enter the back door, up the stairwell and into my office. It's a path that has changed significantly little in the past 13 years. It's not the work or the place itself, it's all the memories it brings to my mind, it's the familiarity that haunts me. The things of this place cause me to recall the life that was and then daily opens the sorrowful door to that fateful December day and to our lost dreams that died with Wyatt.
My heart begins to race, there is pain, sorrow, tears welling in my eyes, tightness in my chest, and the compelling desire to run the other way, to run from the routine of this place that harbors all those years of life and the dreams of what the sacrifice of being here would afford us. Now, this place so familiar to me I can walk it with my eyes closed, this place that I have spent over a decade visiting almost daily, this place that was so prominent in my life as being mostly a source of a goodness and kindness and stability, is merely a shell that contains all my shattered dreams. Once I'm in, it's mostly ok, it's comfortable, like an old shirt, but getting there requires a daunting and fearful treck across the badlands...and just like Butch, I have to question if it's worth it.
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