I'm losing my power. It was always, I'm sure, more perceived than real. But if possession is nine tenths of the law, then I think perception is a comparable percentage of our reality. There was a time when I could shelter my children. I could thrown an arm out to stop them stepping into the path of a too fast car. I could swoop them up to avoid a jumping dog. I could literally cover them with my bigger body if it came to it. It never did. But I could and would have done it without thought.
I was in need of a long slow walk today. There's a place I go, up over a hilly road to an old stone house. Even in its acute state of dilapidation, it's a peaceful destination to me. It always offers some helpful insight. Today I walked the full way around it, which I've never done before. High stepping through the deep grass, peeking in the cracked windows of this eighteenth century shelter, here's what I saw, the gem the house offered. A turkey vulture nested on one of the hearthstones. She sensed me spying at the same instant I realized what she was, black and alive. She didn't hesitate. She came at me, leaving her egg lonely on the bare stone to neutralize the threat. I walked quietly away. This was my lesson for today.
Whether by instinct or the emotion we call love, we all want our children to stay safe and whole. That's our highest priority as parents, but how can we fulfill when we can no longer physically shelter them with our arms or wings outstretched in defiance of a world ready to do them harm?
We can't. We don't have the power. We never really did. But if that's the truth and always has been, then we'll probably never stop trying.
Several weeks ago I read Bomb Shelter, a stunning memoir by Mary Laura Philpott (thank you to my sister-in-law Kristin Scali for the recommendation). This piece is in part inspired by Philpott's story of our constant attempts, often futile, but still beautiful, to protect the people we love.
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