The Sandbox

Amnesia, Art, Healing




I wake with clarity and sadness around the distance I have with my mother. Her birthday is coming up, she will be 87 and I reflexively blame myself for this chasm, the exact width I cannot grasp. 

It is not as large as acquaintance, not as close as friend. There is a politeness, a caring I hear from her but I can feel inside me a deep freeze, a calculated, chosen lack of connection. 

It’s the leap I took long ago. And the place that I landed from which I cannot return. 

My amnesia has long been my savior and thief, protecting me by stealing the details, the exact why’s and when’s that left me with this chasm. But my amnesia has also loosened these past few years, allowing now emotion and the kind of clarity that I wake with this morning, a distance I can at least feel and recognize that is painful, a lacking that announces itself. 

I’ve got pages, pages where I’ve gathered up stories and conversations with parts of me about my mother, clues that I’ve stuffed into a would-be novel or my website. 

These have been pads in the lily pond, getting me places, but more often than not I’ve been unable to feel things building upon one another until…maybe…this morning. 

Where things feel like they are slowing down…nearly coming to a halt…a fast train with decades of momentum that finally, after four years of playing with the brakes might willing to stop at a destination or two, allowing me to get off, to explore and to find what I need in this journey towards healing and peace and truth. 

It is one of my leaving fish slowing down and I decide to not use too many words to catch it but…rather…instead…