Quiet

The sword sits in the corner dutifully, carefully placed outside the reach of little hands. I grab it and start cutting. The same set of motions, again and again. My mind is awash with too many things. Whock, whik, whik... the cuts don't sound right. Images and feelings flutter through me. I keep cutting... distraction helps. Maybe I'll get my mind settled down enough to get some sleep.

It's those brown eyes that won't leave me alone.

I keep cutting. Even my tee shirt had starts to feel heavy. I feel as if my arms are going to fall off. That shoulder that got trashed in college gloomily reminds me that it still doesn't approve of my actions. I take a short break to strip to the waist. Lines of sweat run down my body. The anger and frustration are flickering embers, a shadow of the large blaze from earlier.

Somewhere around 400 cuts, something changes in my movement. I'm made of liquid. I feel like I am poured from stance to stance. Whoosh. One cut sounds right. Then two, three, four. Finally ten in a row, and I know I am in my groove. I take pleasure at watching the dull arc of light created by the weapon as it flashes in front of the gentle lamp. The movement feels really good... ruefully, a little part of me laughs that this type of movement is decades (plural) away from being the norm for me.

But then, that's the journey. Destinations don't matter over much.

For a brief period, I stop counting and start to simply enjoy the sensation. It ain't good, it ain't bad... it's just cutting. The quality of the movement becomes second to its necessity. I need it because it is the only thing that makes sense in a chaotic world.

Relieved, I slowly return the weapon to its sheathe, and tuck it away in its childless corner. I've got a wooden sword that would work just as good... but I know that I'm never quite happy unless I've got the noise. Hard to explain.

For a few minutes, I just sit on my floor and feel relaxed for the first time all day.

But it doesn't last. I see the lady's eyes again, and feel that confused welter of emotions. I think of the case she was connected with. If you'd peruse the docket for that case, nothing remarkable would jump out at you. Everything in the paperwork would stare back at you, orderly and reassuring.

But I know different. The burden of people who do my work is to see past the orderly paperwork into the humans that dwell within. Today, I witnessed a lady demonstrate absolute courage. In a cold courtroom, surrounded by strangers, she admitted her own failures as a parent.

The baby monitor sitting next to me on the floor suddenly sounds a lot louder. My own child is very young, and I am constantly brimming with all the things I'll "never" do as a parent, and quietly filled with fear for the things that I might. I witnessed a lot of ugly things as a child, and I'd be a fool to think that I'm beyond their influence.

This lady, with her totally honest brown eyes, connected with me. And it wasn't because she had the courage to admit her failures (though most don't). What made her truly extraordinary is how she turned her failures into her strength; used the burning sting of that past wound to totally transform her life. Her words were so plain, so intimate in their sincerity that they were painful. I recall fighting the urge to turn away as she tearfully recounted her tale... it hit home.

At the end of this day in court, she didn't get what she asked for. She didn't get a second chance as a parent... or, at least, not the one she wanted. Was what happened appropriate? Was it fair? Was it justice?

I'm not wise enough to know. Strangely, none of those questions were what bothered me.

What bothered me the most was that very sanitary paper file that would not reflect any of that splendid, inspiring humanity. Her courage was such that it deserved a monument in stone, and not the quiet hour in the court room that she got.

But then, perhaps the only monuments that matter are the ones that get engraved upon the heart of one's fellow man; forged by adversity and defined only in actions. She certainly left an indelable mark on mine. These feeble words, largely for my own comfort, are a poor monument.

But it's better than nothing.