Wednesday, April 25, 2012

woodpecker

Awake settles on me, covering me in dew. I sit still and listen, half-lidded. I sit still and stare at the wall. It doesn't move. I sit still and turn off my brain. It turns itself back on like some haunted kitchen, roaring a blender and percolating some imaginary coffee.

Thinking.

I meditate with my hot coffee next to me. It smells like home and comfort. I revel in the smell without having to drink. I hear a woodpecker in the distance, drilling into an old tree. I close my eyes and see him. I see his red head drilling into the dead tree behind my house. He is trying to find bugs in a dead thing. It reaches up, the tree, pretending to be healthy, but the woodpecker gives it away. 

Thinking.

The garbage truck roars down the street, and Thor screams truck and scrambles to the window. The birds descend on my backyard and eat my seeds. The squirrels run from Jack. 

A few weeks ago, a pounding noise woke us all. Beezus whispered, frightened, "What is that? Our house is falling, Mama."

It was a woodpecker on the outside wall behind our bedroom. He found the wood shingles. If he pecks long enough, a bug might emerge. He might eat. We banged on the wall. 

GO AWAY, WOODPECKER! WE ARE NOT A TREE!

And it stopped, moments after it began. I already missed being mistaken for a tree, part of the landscape, the natural world of suburbia. Beezus told me a few days later that she felt a drop of water on her head. I turned my head to the ceiling, afraid of leaking roofs and burst pipes, and she said she was certain she got wet from the hole the woodpecker made through our wood siding, the plaster, the lathe, the ceiling. "It is impossible, my angel. He could not have made a hole that big in so short amount of time." Rain is coming in! Get umbrellas! Get a rainjacket! Hurry!

Thinking.

A man shot himself on Saturday night. He stared me in the eyes on Saturday morning and said, "Don't worry about me, Angie. I am fine. I feel good. I feel strong. I am fine. I am better." But I was worried, he looked tired and sad and could never say he was anything but fine.

There is a woodpecker burying its beak in my skull. It is incessant. Knock. Knock. Knock. It is exposing the writhing thoughts that turn over themselves. I shoo them away. 

Thinking.

We all wrestle with wondering what we could have done. Knock. Knock. Knock. How could we have saved him? Knock. Knock. Knock. What words would have saved his life? Knock. Knock. Knock. How much more love could we have given him? Knock. Knock. Knock.  How much more compassion? Knock. Knock. Knock. I think about their questions last night, the night before, the community reeling from the after effects of the suicide of someone who only said he was fine.

I stand. I wipe the morning off my face, scratch the sand out of the corner of my eyes. I make breakfast and finish the coffee, and dress the children, thinking about the moment between fine and not fine.

10 comments:

  1. Angie, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that your friend was not fine and for all the hurts and questions and griefs it has left you with.

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  2. I'm sorry.

    Sometimes there is nothing you can do. Even though it feels like it, sometimes there is nothing anyone can do. I am trying to accept this myself right now.

    Sending you love.

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  3. Thank you, but no condolences are necessary. He was an acquaintance. Someone I knew for only a few short months, but his suicide has been making me think how often I say I'm fine when I am anything but.

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  4. Knock knock knock. That woodpecker visits my skull too. Fine... We all say it. It means nothing. It is a word entangled in it's inability to communicate the something on either side of fine. It seems sometimes fine means I'm broken but can not speak of it. I'm broken and don't know how to be with it. But I am here. Struggling. We all ask ourselves the questions. What could we have done?? Me about my daughter... The man and his saddness it is tragic. I don't believe he is in pain any But longer. The knocking is something to listen to but holds so little answers. Sending you some peace.

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  5. Oh, Angie. This is so hard. I say I'm fine all the time and it's probably true about half the time. I think there's a point where it turns from putting on a brave face into a kind of giving up.

    We have had daily visits from a woodpecker for a few weeks now. And after reading your post, I'm going to try to use the knocking as a reminder to be honest about being fine or not - at least with myself.

    Sending love.

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  6. Oh, how awful. I know you said no condolences were necessary, but that is still not a nice thing to have happen.

    Sending you love.
    xo

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  7. I sometimes think the word "fine" doesn't have any true meaning except as a social nicety. I often have to ask my therapy patients how they are twice in a row, because the first answer is so frequently "fine". The second one is anything but. I catch myself doing it all the time, even when I should know better.

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  8. What a tragedy, and certainly something that would get in the way. I had a neighbor who shot himself about ten years ago. His death still comes up for me sometimes. I didn't know him well, but he lived down the hall. The aftermath of his death caused confusion for me. It was horrible. I hope you find some moments of peace xoxoxo

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  9. "thinking about the moment between fine and not fine."

    It's a hair's-breadth that space between fine and not.

    think we are all liars. I'm fine. I'm not fine. I'm both at the same time. Mostly that, actually. Fine and not fine exists sometime in the same breath for me.

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  10. Oh my, Angie. I am so sorry about your friend/acquaintance. How often do we just automatically say we're "fine" (even when we're not), and just accept others' "fine"s at face value? Do we really want to know the truth? :(

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