Inside Our Heads

I make coffee for a friend who drops by, and she smiles as she takes the cup from my hand. But the smile doesn’t belong. It’s anxious to escape, so she instantly deletes it.

“A difficult day,” my guest observes, breaking the awkward silence.

I nod, tears welling.

A noise: a car pulling up on our driveway.

She places her cup on the table and jumps to her feet. “That’ll be my husband.”

“I’m so sorry,” she says, stepping through the front door.

Sorry for what?

For the death of our child?

For not knowing what to say?

For wanting to leave?

Or does she not want to impose herself on us, even briefly, on the worst day of our lives?

She didn’t say. I can only guess.

After she has gone, I notice the full coffee cup. It cries, Life has changed! Our home is no longer a place to linger over coffee, laugh, chat, and say a hundred goodbyes before finally breaking away with regret.

“I’m so sorry.”

Did she realise she couldn’t follow us over the line we crossed that afternoon at 3 o’clock?

We can’t experience first-hand someone’s tears, fears, hopes, and shattered dreams, reading their thoughts and feeling what they feel. We can’t get inside their heads. Although we can glean clues from the outside, we can’t be certain we’ve got things right.

Which makes me wonder.

If we can’t see inside heads, why do we think we know our children better than they know themselves, and why do we assume we have the right to decide what’s best?

It’s just as well that you can’t see inside my head at the moment. If you could, you’d see a mess. Maybe it’s overwhelming tiredness, isolation, or the cold, grey winter weather. Or maybe it’s because I doubt my purpose and have lost my way. Whatever the reason, sometimes I’d like to leave, escape, run away from my thoughts and feelings. I don’t want to be here, inside my head.

I remember what St Julian of Norwich said:

All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.

It will be.

It was.

It was true of the worst time of my life.

Photo

A recent photo of the wet, burnt, hazard-reduced bush close to home.