There is a visible order in which we comfortably inhabit. This order keeps track, watches out for, follows meekly but is inspired by, and prides boldness. Within this visibility we have peers and allies, sometimes to cheer and congratulate, other times to vent and encourage the discouraged. Reminders are frequently placed upon keeping one’s expectations open and broad allowances for individuality, but of course that individuality is going to become a doctor or an athlete. This life has strife but expected, like uneven pavement, and fellowshipping others in the same boat allows for even the most trying stages to provide shared levity.
My son has slipped out of this order and into a shadow space, not behind the visible, but between it, right there, so close, the same really, but darker and blurry, a shadowed interstice between light and light.
I didn’t know it existed. Or, more truthfully, I did, but I did not find any good or necessary reason to explore this sliver under a door, or cobwebby corner, sparse back of the Christmas tree. I have not been raised, educated, or found reasonable need to examine beyond the boundary of visible order. Turn off the light now, and walk past a mirror. That darkened image with known details blended into general shape is where you’ll find the invisible order. Walk outside when the day has forecasted rain, hour by hour you wait, and it hasn’t poured just yet; but in those swollen dense clouds you’ll find the invisible order.
I find myself with silent but pressing anger towards others blithely unaware that we are here. ‘You have done nothing that I have not done!’ I want to yell, and rage at their normalness. I feel ‘called’ like a religion to let everyone know that they do not understand, that we are not in this together, that their challenges are meager and as flimsy as waxed paper and how dare they make assumptions. I cope by boxing people into tight little diagrammatical personalities, most of which label them as either stupid, ignorant, or both (examples as follows to be read with sarcasm): ‘they don’t even have kids’, ‘she obviously has no life experience’, ‘yeah, real hard to parent when you’ve got grandma and grandpa three blocks away’, ‘seriously, your kid is pretty damn basic at best.’
With this sharpness to my every thought and connection point to this world of humans and parents and non-parents and the school vice principal and baristas at Starbucks and whomever is driving in front of me that clearly is their first time behind the wheel because they are driving so damn slow they must be new to this, I am huddling smaller and sidling further away. My son slipped out, and in my keening, clawing, grasping way to pull him back, I am instead beginning to become accustomed to this place, running my hands along sharp edges, and it is ugly. It’s the kind of ugly that no one wants to know the details of, no one really wants to think too hard on what went wrong or who messed up, because this slice of air between the clothes dryer and floor is dark and musty, full of lint and largely ignored by the visible order.
For those that have found themselves here, we are bewildered. Teachers are very familiar with our kids and frequently call and email, apprising us of the latest poor behaviour, skipping class, talking rudely, failing everything. They use phrases like, ‘I’d appreciate if you would reiterate the importance of…’ because we must have been inattentive thus far. Surely so. We weather suggestions and attempts to relate with varied degrees of patience. ‘I think (fill in the blank minor transgression) is pretty normal at this age,’’ These branches held out in an attempt to tepidly rationalize, normalize, relate, only serve to poke and prod us further, bruising, deeper, and certainly more alone into the awareness that we are likely to remain here, unknown.
I walked today, as I do everyday. I walk to think and to get away from my thoughts, sometimes overlapping this rationale. The trail was muddy, my shoes sunk deep and chunks of mud clung to the outer rim of my shoes. At the near but not quite top, there is a bench that overlooks the town. I sat and paused my podcast and in doing so, noticed it was 11:11, the time for wishes to be made. In one long run-on sentence I whispered aloud all of my wishes, rushing to get them all contained within that minute. They may or may not come true, but I felt the calm and hope that even here, outside the visible order, wishes can be made.