Laura's family had a terrifying experience early Sunday morning. At 4:35am, we got a phone call from a family friend in St. Simons' Island. It was about Laura's brother, Wes. He had been in an auto accident and, since it was very early in the proceedngs, we didn't know much information. We were told a very similar story to that of when Laura's sister, Rebekah, had been in a fatal accident 2 Summers prior. It was eerie.
Since Laura was on the phone getting information, my heart was beating in what seemed like my throat. I wanted to know what was happening and feared so badly that the unthinkable might be possible. Pacing around from bathroom to bedroom, I heard bits and pieces. Finally, I knew that it was serious and we had to get in touch with Laura's parents. Laura initially thought she might not be able to do it. Quickly, she dialed the number. She prepared her Dad and delivered the news. They were ready to leave the mountain cabin in Cherry Log almost immediately, even though they had just only arrived the evening before.
Now it's been 3 days since then. I sit here writing these words in a completely different environment than I would've been 2 years ago. Wes is alive. He has a journey toward complete recovery, but his injuries are all concentrated around his face. He's already speaking, comprehending, and adjusting (albeit groggily) to his post-accident surroundings and conditions. Laura was commenting on how "fascinating" it was to listen to what Wes said and what he was doing. She was almost giddy about it. I believe it's because this is the reality that was nonexistent when Rebekah was in an almost identical situation. This is what might have been, in her case, that Laura never got to experience. Most certainly, it's an arena of redemption and grace this time around. A collective, deep sigh of relief is palpable amongst everyone involved with her family and this community.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Ponderings
Had some time to think. Here is the result:
Why do we chase and sprint after all these ghosts? You live a life full of intrigue and expectations that yield a rare sum of light. Beauty pulses all throughout, haunting the edges of days like the tick of a clock. Effort presses onward to finally grasp that thing – that one thing – which will finally bring resolution and bliss.
This is the losing battle. If anything, we discover ourselves to be easily fooled. Like hamsters on the treadmill, it’s a neverending emptying of the pockets to the dealer at the table. Yet, we try and try. It must be noble in the judgement of someone’s eyes, we hope.
Gorgeous sadness. Many have made fortunes mining the misery of our kind. They say if you can’t laugh at it, then you’d weep. The laughing may be a coping mechanism or just a method to stave off the brutal reality of our collective loss. The laughter is rich, however. Humor is a kind balm. The most honest is the dark variety. Here we marry the grim consequences of our actions to the wisdom gained from humble reflection. We can stare ourselves down in the mirror and smile. That’s a victory unto itself.
For all this mess we place ourselves in, how do we find a meaning to it? Almost as a gut instinct, we can flail in the pool of excuses and dish out accusations in all directions. No one is safe from these. The last target we would dare to put in our sights is our self. Claiming responsibility is a massive direct hit to the pride we all own.
If, in a lifetime, this level can be reached, there is truly hope. Tragically, we have a blind spot preventing us from achieving it, most of the time. If we treasure the perspective of an outsider, and step outside our own window view, the closer to freedom we would be.
Why do we chase and sprint after all these ghosts? You live a life full of intrigue and expectations that yield a rare sum of light. Beauty pulses all throughout, haunting the edges of days like the tick of a clock. Effort presses onward to finally grasp that thing – that one thing – which will finally bring resolution and bliss.
This is the losing battle. If anything, we discover ourselves to be easily fooled. Like hamsters on the treadmill, it’s a neverending emptying of the pockets to the dealer at the table. Yet, we try and try. It must be noble in the judgement of someone’s eyes, we hope.
Gorgeous sadness. Many have made fortunes mining the misery of our kind. They say if you can’t laugh at it, then you’d weep. The laughing may be a coping mechanism or just a method to stave off the brutal reality of our collective loss. The laughter is rich, however. Humor is a kind balm. The most honest is the dark variety. Here we marry the grim consequences of our actions to the wisdom gained from humble reflection. We can stare ourselves down in the mirror and smile. That’s a victory unto itself.
For all this mess we place ourselves in, how do we find a meaning to it? Almost as a gut instinct, we can flail in the pool of excuses and dish out accusations in all directions. No one is safe from these. The last target we would dare to put in our sights is our self. Claiming responsibility is a massive direct hit to the pride we all own.
If, in a lifetime, this level can be reached, there is truly hope. Tragically, we have a blind spot preventing us from achieving it, most of the time. If we treasure the perspective of an outsider, and step outside our own window view, the closer to freedom we would be.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
