(editor's note, thursday morning, after i wrote this post very late in the night: i woke up this morning PISSED OFF, for lack of a better way to say that. i am pissed. pissed, pissed, pissed, pissed. but i refuse to live my one life shaking in cowering paranoia, in spite of the fact that the door will not be fixed until next week. next WEEK?! next %$#*%$*# week??? no, i will not stop posting about my life. no, i will not stop sharing my schedule. no. no. NO. (can you hear me yelling here?!) yes, i am a single woman living out in the middle of nowhere. yes, i feel violated. yes, i am afraid. yes, i am angry, to say the very least. this is more than an inconvenience, it is a robbery of my sense of well being, my sense of security, my sense of - sanctuary. whoever did this to me - whoever is the owner of that nasty footprint on my front door where he (surely he, those footprints are huge) tried to kick it in, whoever rifled through my antique armoire in search of god knows what, whoever dared leave his huge macho tire prints in my back yard, damn you if you reading this. damn you, and i am not able just yet to forgive sorry, pathetic, nasty, selfish you. maybe - hopefully - in a few hours, a few days i will forgive, but right now? i'm not that big. i was able to sleep last night with a huge gaping hole in my life, with sounds of shards of glass continuing to rain down behind the sofa and into my life. i was able to sleep, once i turned out the light after 2am, i was able to sleep without the usual crazy dreams until 9:15 when my landlord friend called to tell me they wouldn't be here to fix that shattered door until the middle of next week. i was not able, not yet, to begin to sweep up the mess. i suppose today, i will. forgive the rant.)
there is nothing like coming home after holding one's self together, bolstered and buoyed, to the feeling of being trespassed, violated, shattered. i was stunned. who would do this? why would someone steal from me? why does anyone steal? why ask why?
pretty, isn't it? the pattern brings to mind the fathomless wings of cicadas, like glass with leaded details throughout. i just never thought i'd see it in a simple, double glass sliding door. not this door, anyway. there is a sinking feeling when one stands before a locked front door that is no longer locked, when one walks inside and looks down to papers scattered at one's feet, glances over to find a thick scattering of tempered glass, open drawers, things missing from one's view.
the new tv, the dvd player, my old laptop with photos and files... gone. downstairs door, kicked in with splintered door frame. who knows what is missing, other than these things? i don't know. my things. my world. my sanctuary, dirtied with unwelcome presence while i was away. i did all of the right things - left lights on, locked every window, covered my studio table with a cloth. yet still, they came, whoever they are, and threw a heavy something through that porch door, they kicked things and scattered glass across the sofa, across the oriental carpet, across my world. this makes me sick. no one deserves to enter this house without my welcome, no one deserves to stomp across my world. no one. so, i've spent this evening and tonight talking on the phone with almost every family member, i called the little 27 year old baby deputy sheriff and had him come to take the usual notes, the usual photographs. why bother. they've long since disappeared, and most likely sold the goods for drugs. that's what they do, whoever they are. they steal and they get away with it. bad people. shame on them. jerks. reminds me of the year that a popular boy kept going into my locker and stealing the chocolate bars out of my lunches that my mother had so lovingly made for me each day. finally she folded a piece of notebook paper, wrote the word "SHAME" in great big letters across the front, then tucked the folded paper (candy bar thickness) back inside the hershey's wrapper and into the brown paper bag. this so called popular boy of good montgomery stock (i remember him still. wiley. as in wile e. coyote) took out his pen and wrote "go to hell" on the other side of the paper. but he did stop stealing, and i hope he remembers his bad ways to this day.
do people who steal have consciences? do they know what they are doing is wrong? i think they believe it is right for them, that they deserve whatever falls into their path. i say, shame. i also say to go away, to leave me alone, to let me live my life without such a rude interruption. things are things, just that and nothing more. i can go out and spend another $1500 to replace the tv, the dvd player, the extra laptop. it won't be easy, i work hard for my income, but maybe, just maybe, i can. what i can't do is replace the sense of safety and solace i've had while living here for four lovely, quiet years. i'll do my best to forgive and move on. tomorrow.
meanwhile, i'll recall the flower ben plucked and held still for me to see, i'll remind myself that he carried it home where we could place it in water on the kitchen windowsill;
i'll remember the torrential days of rain that washed and drenched the streets of atlanta, i'll remind myself that there are those whose homes were flooded, were damaged beyond repair. and i'll wake up tomorrow morning, and begin to move forward again. just like that. because i can. xo
At night, I open the window and ask
the moon to come and press its
face against mine. Breathe into
me. Close the language- door and
open the love window. The moon
won't use the door, only the window.
From Soul of Rumi
by Coleman Barks