I love words–the turn of a phrase, the smack of a good quote, the potential of a new word. I wanted to be a writer since I was in the single digits, dangling my legs over the edge of the pew in all my aged wisdom. A small notebook kept my thoughts and stories company. But I have found it very hard to find words to tell my children about the divorce.
I am almost mute. When they say to me, why mom why? My mind loses it’s connection and goes blank. Completely blank , like I just zoomed into a black hole. Grey matter, reason, intelligence, articulateness –gone. I reach for words and they fly up to the ceiling. Circling like skitterish flies, out to annoy but never be captured.
Why mommy why, the Professor intones at inopportune times and my mind shuts down like a computer unplugged. Fizzle, sizzle, blackness. I know the reasons. There are many and few. They are momentuous, they are mundane; they are profound. I am grown, middle age in fact. I see gray now, not just black and white. I bought the dream and I have experienced the back side of it– the ravelly, threads hanging messy side. They are young, tender, cauldrons of emotions, repositories of dreams. This is their whole life.
So I struggle. I think. I try out thoughts to myself on long walks. I hesitate to name, yet I must defend. If there is no defense, then they are left without a rudder, without a frame, without structure for their comprehension and feelings. I do not attack. I seek the emotion, looking for hope. Stability. Healing.