story

It feels to me that there is a story here, but I don't know it. Did I know it at one time and have since forgotten? Is it a story yet to be uttered? Is it some universal truth, some collective unconscious' tale of woe or salvation? I don't know. Perhaps it's only a few photos, a collection of light and shape. (my thoughts upon finishing editing it)

The “real” story is that we’d been at home until late in the day. Insomnia and a little boy’s night terrors had restricted my sleep to beginning in the wee hours of the morning. My husband, always putting my health before his sanity, let me sleep in. Later, I was desperate for some sky and air. We went to a favorite park, banked on the ocean. I’d never been to  the beach side of the park, even though salty, sandy, stony grounds are some of my favorite, because there is a very tall, shabby, scary metal bridge you must risk your life on to get to it. I’m terrified of heights. I very nearly panicked at the top. What saved me from being taken over completely by the feeling that I stood only on air and would drop at any moment was that my son was looking at me, wondering what was wrong. {I don’t want my fears to be something I gift to him. They are mine. He will have his own crosses to bare. Let them come naturally, if they must come at all.} I’m so glad I made it. It was a beautiful place and well worth the fractions of terror I felt. I’m not even embarrassed that I had to run the last 10 feet to the car. Pride has no price when seeking art.